Текст песни Тяжёлая атлетика - ОРИДЖИНАЛ

I don't give a fuck about the past—
About all those vegetables with their childish laughter.
Some "lumberjack" dude ripped me off for fifty bucks;
Grikha got me high on "Heavy Athletics."
We used to aim for the squad back in the day—
The sky was fucked up, sour as hell.
While we're stuck in the trenches,
It’s not the West that holds sway—it’s the East, and how much sleep you get.
And time drifts by as the world I observe turns into exactly...
...what I was rapping about.
I acted like a total prick—
Like some small-time dealer;
The only things I didn't mess with were Dex and Krokodil.
I’ll waste all my years staring at my phone;
I look at the screen and see my "beloved" right there—in a porn clip.
The cops are watching, and we’re just babbling idiots in our chats.
The cash I blew on shawarma would have been enough to drop...
...on a badass submersible, so I could flex out in the bay, too.
I’d pull up right next to the President:
"Why do you need a bong? Why do you need a newspaper? Cults are roaming the country..."
"...right there in the news feeds."
The lunatics get swapped out at dawn—replaced by rich kids.
I’d rather feed bears in their dens than feed these pretentious posers.
Half the country is burnt-out and bitter;
If I ever make any money, I’ll blow it all on "Originals."

I blow my cash on "Originals."
It’s obvious—this isn't just a visual gimmick.
Somewhere out in the bay, she’s in her negligee...
...licking my scepter.
You were just a bitter victim;
I cut right through you—shining like a searchlight into the darkness.
Straight into your seven deadly sins of endless torment.
This is heavy music, my friend.
You won't make sense of anything around you...
...or maybe you will—but only when you're high on a pill.
Walking on thin ice across the pond—it’s a struggle.
Gotta be careful not to tangle the strings of the soul.
And half the country is cast out on the fringes...
While the rich kids roll by in their Jeeps.
Go buy something. Armored roofing—
After all, yours is already crumbling.
I’ll never manage to get my fill.
All the streetlights are fading; their hearts are fading, too.
The news feeds are buzzing again about dead rappers.
First thing in the morning, I’d take a deep drag,
Exhale, and take another hit—yeah.

Everything’s gonna be fucking awesome; my lungs are shrouded in smoke.
A cool breeze quietly creeps into my nostrils.
I figured out this whole game a long time ago.
Our people still put their faith in the ballads of maniacs.
Until they bend you all over and fuck you in the ass, you’ll just keep on crying.
To the beat of this hip-hop, my motherboard is overheating.
I’m blowing smoke somewhere up on the plateau.
Our whole life is a lottery: some are burying the dead,
While others are puking right in its face.
I catch the scent of a waiter—
Somewhere in the slums of Magnitogorsk courtyards.
My "swallow"—my ride—spits right in the face of some skinny little slut.
She stomps her way across the world on her skinny little legs.
Surrounded by bitches at the top of the game, I cast all those gold-digging whores into the fire.
We’re on intimate terms now—my thoughts are inside you.
My life is the road to immortality.
I gave up on "rap" a long time ago; now I’m just fucking going hard—forever.
My head is packed with thoughts, but those thoughts serve as my amulet.
I write *to* the beat, but my thoughts don't *fit* the beat.
In short, it looks like my thoughts got lost in the loop.
But quietly, I’m piecing it together: the "old school" sound is still spinning on the player—still relevant.
I’ve got a premonition: the demons are sticking an insulin needle into someone in the stairwell.
Just try to make your racket in moderation.
You rookies—go fuck each other with intent.
Fear the siren—or the portrait of Dorian Gray.