Текст песни LoveMic, ДЖЕФРИльюис, Мультголова - Интро

We think in the abstract;
No contracts here—just contact, an EP, and two compact discs.
My verses hit like lines from a Kantian show—instantly quotable; this is a show of giants.
Culture won't be saved by "Timur and His Team."

We’re in this game not for rank or cash—even Vanga knew that.
Boom Bap? That’s Odi, sir—a true classic of the genre.
And that means drinking, hanging out, cruising in an old Volga sedan—
It’s the underground life; a gypsy woman read it in my palm back in childhood.

The beat is just the bait—a glint of sunlight off the lines.
This is rap from the outskirts, honed to perfection.
A constant on the charts; we chase our goals on our own terms.
We didn't pay our way to the top—no "Daddy's money" bought our spot.

Every line is a knockout blow; our sound was never sold off cheap.
We dug deep—tilling the fields of this culture for years without an advance.
The fakers have retreated; with a mic in our hands, applause is inevitable.
A wild strain straight from the Odi plantations.

I’m here to clear the path of the frauds.

The coward fled, I bumped fists with my brother, and the enemy hit the floor.
I took down MCs in battles, claiming victory as my only prize.
I spoke the truth through freestyle—off the cuff, no hesitation, never a chore.
I laid my vocals over the beat—and through that voice, I’ll always be right there with you.

L.M.—the impact of a projectile: panic and chaos ensue.
The Old School is here to teach a lesson to anyone trying to crawl in straight from the garden patch.
I’m stubborn, my charge hasn't run out—we’re going hard, straight ahead, yo!
We’ll seize what’s ours, and spin the globe on our fingertips like pros!

Rap is my profile; it runs in my blood, and nothing else matters.
It’s one love—music is my morphine. I devour beats for breakfast, right alongside my coffee.
We catch our high from this; by evening, there’s a brand-new verse.
With brows furrowed in determination, we push forward. No storm can stop us now.

We put our souls into this work. Weighing in at more than a pood. Imported.
Rhymes stick tight whenever the two Sanis grab the mics.
I’m locked into the game. Form a circle—it’s about to get hype.
Time to pump up this joint with a dose of our sound.

I know the streets are waiting, and the guys in the studio are reaching out.
Music has bound us together in a double knot—two MCs from the block.
Two Sanis—that makes two. Now there are two mics—catch it!
Planet Ragtime instrumental—moving to the rhythm in my head.