Текст песни Fatty Fat feat. MAGMI, MISHLEN - Харизма

The cross around my neck melts the silver chain;
The show is off-limits to those who are already blind.
A ruthless judge hands down a ten-year sentence;
Alas, you won't win—after all, you're no Johnny Depp.
Money rules the world, darling—you're right.
Nothing surprises anyone anymore; true originality is forgotten.
The vibe is fucked—the weed didn't help you out.
The "Glock 17" style degrades into a rubber-bullet pistol—bang, bang.
The gaps are filling in: some are broke, others are riding high.
The old boat won't sink—it's already at the bottom anyway.
They're waiting for some kind of comeback, but Time says no;
It flies by so fast that not a trace of it remains.
A deck of cards—is it friend or foe?
We hold faith that the dark circle will close once again.
My wife is at home; you can keep your miserable bitches.
I can cut right into your soul—guard your heart.
With me, it's Michelin-star quality—a five-star verse hits the mic.
I'll have to disappoint you a little, though: you won't find any sugary-sweet sherbet in it.
Everything is cyclical; the boundaries dissolve, giving way to the crowd.
And there, once again, rap finds its true meaning.
I'm an older guy now—I don't flash my mug on endless Reels.
My hustle is built on skills, not on diamond grills.
My guide is my charisma;
Magmi—an acolyte of healthy self-interest.
Listen up, kid: around here, flaunting your cash is bad form.
Nobody gives a fuck who you used to beat up.
What matters is who you are when you step out into the street—
A stand-up guy, or just a windbag on the mic?
I've been stewing in this scene for twenty years, and I've seen plenty just like you.
In their tracks, it's all sweet jams; in real life, they'd stab a homie in the back.
Didn't we smoke just as much as the "young winds" are smoking now?
But how many did the Hydra drag down to hell?
Bro, which generation are we on now where the void just swallows everyone whole?
To the slaughter, everyone—with a triumphant "Hurrah!" Rejoice, you emigrant! As always, the fools hear the same old story—
That the year was tough, even as the clock struck twelve.
It’s the 163rd—Ru Detroit—skills honed sharp at the grindstone.
My brother Totti is nodding his head—from St. Petersburg to Moscow.
Our shores are smokin'—the operation is in full swing—MONO.
Our hip-hop always finds its own.
My homie rolls it up with skill—no problem, we’re locked in.
Your young "freshmen" seem to have lost their damn minds.
We’re gonna shut down this charade, bro, 'cause we keep it *true*.
You’re just playing at this game, son—but I *live* it.
To pump up the crew with music—that’s my number one mission.
I’m backed by seasoned vets—a deep bow to the masters.
This stuff is too heavy—damn—for the "vanilla" crowd.
We’re in our own tight circle—sinking the bottle even deeper.
Rappers nowadays are all about style, manicures, and flexing.
My grizzlies run on pure charisma and bare-knuckle grit.
They know our names in the courtyards—can you hear the voices of the streets?
This is Totti—St. Petersburg to Moscow—signing in.