Текст песни ЧЕРДАК23, Мурмура, Билли Ногами, Завод, Tureast - Суббота

I screamed out in the fields,
Driving my verses in like stakes,
Looping the beat on repeat,
Filling up the voids.
After all, who else but us
Could prove that Primorye is fucking badass?
Yet my father—worn down by grief—
Could only sigh.
There is nowhere to escape one's thoughts;
Where does one even put oneself here?
And far away—back at "Cherdak"—
The track "Laitets" plays on.
It wasn't easy for us
To climb our way out of childhood;
After wading through shady shit,
You need to change your clothes—
Not just switch your allegiances.
Lately, they’ve all just been
Rubbing feathers with one another.
Our rap consists of life lessons;
The beats are my raw emotions—
Even the nonsense I spit
Finds its groove upon them.
Into the Sea of ​​Japan,
The city drains its piss.

We grow burdened with debt
As we put down our roots.
I was always one to take risks;
Mom would say, "Take it easy."
But I would ask her,
"Remind me again—what was Dad's life like?" We do the very things
In which we drown ourselves;
Forgetting our mistakes,
We repeat them endlessly.
Just as Anatoly Wasserman
Guards his virginity—
Keep at least a drop
Of the sacred in your heart.
Inside a Vuitton bag:
A gun and some condoms.
I tore up the Criminal Code,
And wiped my ass with the law.
I’m still in the same neighborhood—
Choked with fumes at rush hour,
Where some little kid
Found a baggie in the grass.

"I’ve had it up to here,"
My mother said.
She wanted an athlete,
But ended up in a world of junkies.
In short—so much for those plans.
I’ve swum in these waters before;
It’s started to feel scary.
Life is vivid—
It’s just a shame there’s so little of it.
Police raids sting like wasps;
Cash feels like poison—
I’ve stuffed the incriminating bills
Into every pocket I have.
The kitchen—that little spot
Where people lose their minds;
From the "servants of the people,"
The only gift is prison.
Contacts in my eyes—
Colored pitch black—
Just like the Zenit football squad.
Oops...
My apologies.
"Fine for public drinking"—
Some guy in St. Petersburg slapped me with one.
"Booze is for losers."
Yeah? So what—am I supposed to quit drinking now?

With a steady rhythm,
We churn out volumes of beats.
A nagging question arises:
Without all of this—who are we? My own feelings
Are already shattered.
The madman purred:
"Every fate is already prepared for me."
It’s time to hit the streets now;
There’s nothing but gloom at home.
I need no excuse to duck out—
My posture is crooked enough as it is.
In this cramped little corner,
No thought feels sweet;
And chewing them over—
Alas—just turns my stomach.
They’ll catch me out and strip me
Of my family standing—
With bar-stamps on my wrist,
And lipstick on my neck,
With stains on my collar
From that crimson broth—
All this will only spur me on
To turn right back around.