Текст песни LoveMic, ДЖЕФРИльюис, Мультголова - На хате

Restaurants, clubs, bars? Nah, that’s not the move.
We’re crashing at the pad—got a whole squad with us, too.
The guys have got everything we need; just give us some tunes.
We’re bumping that Hip... we’re bumping that Hop.

Chillin' at the crib, laying rhymes over the beat like a tablecloth.
Freestyling smooths away all our worries. Who’s ready? Let’s pour a round.
Bourbon in the shot glasses—it’s a bit of a madhouse for my brothers.
Sorry, neighbor, but this is a party—damn right it is—so don't mess with our crew.

A couple rounds of cards, and the delivery’s halfway here.
The party’s died down a bit—time to roll up another blunt.
The lamps are dimmed low; smoke and ash drift up on the breeze.
We’re crowding the balcony—wishing we could stay young forever.

My rap is my fuel; we won't drown in the daily grind.
The doorbell rings—"Hello?"—and just like that, the food has arrived.
Everyone’s been waiting impatiently for this feast—and here it is now.
Noodles, pizza, beer—a banquet for the belly.
Gonna stretch it tight as a trampoline.

Saturday night rebellion; the minutes fly by—we’re having a blast.
Some are playing FIFA on the big screen; in the kitchen, it’s cards—Blot, Durak, Bura.
We could keep this up 'til dawn, bro—there are no limits here.
The main thing is not to overdo it, or else there’s a chance things could turn into a serious brawl.

Maybe it sounds crazy, but it rarely happens.
'Cause getting wasted sucks, and the only response is a thrown stool.
So we’ve nipped all arguments in the bud—cut the branch of conflict right off.
We’re all about peace here—so come on, crew: who’s down for a strong one?

Restaurants, clubs, bars? Nah, that’s not the move.
We’re crashing at the pad—got a whole squad with us, too.
The guys have got everything we need; just give us some tunes.
We’re bumping that Hip. We’re turning up the Hip-Hop vibe

A house party—music spinning on vinyl
The sneaker game in the hallway is crazier than any store—so don't even front
Man, sipping a beer right here in our hood
The only place you’ve ever seen parties like this is on a screen
A TV in the bathroom. The kitchen’s thick with smoke
Twenty bodies on one couch, floating in nirvana
The neighbors are fed up—they’ve called the cops more than once, you know how it goes
We’re musicians; this is just how we live
Boom-bap. We’re all about making massive moves
Deep talks about life while we’re high on buds. Camera flashes popping. Cards being dealt
Whether it’s a boys’ night out or we’re chilling with the ladies
We pass the mic around, spitting freestyle rhymes
While a homie gets handsy with his girl in the corner. It’s a wild groove, never a drag
The sound is killer. Phone’s switched off. By morning I’m not dead—I’m still going strong

Restaurants? Clubs? Bars? Nah, that’s not our scene
We’re crashing at the crib—we’ve rolled up with a whole damn squad
The crew’s got everything we need—just give us some tunes
We’re turning up the Hip. We’re turning up the Hop

I inhale ganja more often than fresh air
I smoke, I drink—just smoked a whole gram solo
We’re children of the urban jungle; the house is a mess
It must be damn hilarious when Ivan Urgant cracks jokes while he’s stoned

It’s damn hilarious when Seryoga Kosoy cracks jokes while he’s stoned
Semyonov fires up the console, just like always
The game is killer—he’s thrashing the joystick without mercy
Someone’s messing with the laptop, someone else is gripping the controller

Shoelaces untied, pants sagging low
And what the hell are you staring at? Get the fuck out of here, you punk.
My eyes look like two bloody steaks, sizzling in the sun.
I’m ditching this shit—holed up in the Capital, hibernating in my own little world.

I just really love to smoke.
Go ahead, Pharaoh—try and pin something extra on me, you bastard.
Not too much, not too little—just enough to get me talking crazy.
RB is a wild card—not the type to sit around on a leash.

Just bring me a little joy, enough to slap a grin on my face.
And let's get absolutely wasted—smashed to rags, so fucked up I can't even string a sentence together.
I’ll catch the scent of hydroponics faster than a German Shepherd.
I’ll find it, seize it, light it up, and sing "Chunga-Changa."