Текст песни Oxxxymiron - Не поэт

MC, and not the biggest esthetician.
Even the author of shitty songs, anyone, but not a poet.
For you, poetry is what was given to cram.
Pushkin, Avet, Tyutchev and Fet, heaps of tortured children,
What the fucking sonnet is teaching, but listen to the advice.
It's not that, it's boring, it's dead. Need a poet?
It is easy! Anything is Rambo, here is Gumilev.
Cobain, Villon, Lothreamon, Egor Letov and Blok.
Nikonov Lyokha plus Edik Starkov, PPR, Krovostok.
ATL and Loc-Dog. These are poets, power and light.
It is in them, but, alas, not in you.
You read the verses with anesthesia, but all this * fuck it.
After all, you are not a poet, the poet has an eternal conflict inside.
Shadow of doubt strives to lie, different demons, fucking.
Beyond the idea, sometimes, the desire to lie under granite.
Chaos and pain, troubles with oneself, fears of freedom, tonatos, love.
They write about me that I read hysterically, of course, * damn it, I'm alive.
I'm a third-rate poet, but a top-notch MC.
You're not this and that, you'd better be inspired by Backstreet Boys and N Sync.
Not Geto Boys and Jay-Z, and now let me ask.
What kind of internal conflict can this person have?
Should he pick up crosses today to match the color of a snbackback? What?
The poet is embarrassed to call himself a poet, he is shy and timid.
And if he overcomes himself, then a vigorous, eternal child.
The poet is often x * evo, his spirit is bare, like a wire.
You are a smug, calm, joyful, ordinary fucker * k.
And what? Football, disco, beer, car, TV, wife.
Fuck, what kind of poet are you? You are a classic mid-level manager.
The one who is the soul of the company, he always twists an office romance.
Your hobby has a name, unfortunately you are a graphomaniac.
Unfortunately, this is not treated, there are a lot of graphomaniacs.
The elderly storm the newspapers, the young are raging on the net.
No matter what they tell me later.
That I’m snob-li, that I look down on people.
But God forbid me.
Deliver me, Lord, from reading verses.
S * ka, pensioners from the outskirts, s * ka.
The poet’s work is sacred, people see and don’t fuck them.
You are really charming, but an amateur and layman.
You do not want to walk along the edge where it is not plowed or sown.
Nah * I, if you can give them Yesenin's third-grade remixes?
I’ve spent half my life in the laboratory, in the eternal search for a spell,
Sanya, this is my territory! See how I make a brew.
Well type hhhhhhhhhh.
Since the summer, not a verse about it, the first one here,
He made hundreds of thousands of euro battle rap, aah.
On shoulders responsibility like epaulettes.
I am alpha and omega, as if someone is not crowing.
Fight, I don’t get high on a cone,
The sky is the color of fresh pus, courtyards, wells.
Cezves wake up, virgins with a teenager’s swatch.
Give me bitos and I will build my own cosmos.
I hang over any rubbish long and hard.
An hour as a milestone in the crossroads.
Batl so that brain activity does not decrease.
My flow is a ddos ​​attack, we have remote access.
Rap for those who see lies and deceit, for those
Who is not motivated by Korzh or L’One.
Because everything is cutting, and therefore they look sick at the screen.
Even if there forever, the "City under the sole" played.
ST, you’re probably better than me.
As a husband, a son, and a citizen, probably better than me.
And you cook borscht much better than me.
But your rap is * fucking * fuckin '!
Listen to me, they say in me there is no soul, I do not see the light of God.
But you are not an MC, not a man or a poet, who are you?
Looking in the mirror, the jellyfish turns into stone.
You are again Sanya Stepanov - a faceless guy from Kutuza. Round.