Текст песни Spal Navas - Жиза

In my hood, they’d shoot up your bitch—mistaking her for "Krokodil."
I’ve got a sharp mind; I dumped that bitch the second she started acting dumb.
My homie got ten years for murder—that dumbfuck was a skinhead.
I don't give a fuck that you wanted to "kill" the beat—I stole that kill right out from under you.
My homie is a bastard piece of shit—just like Coca-Cola Zero.
Plus, he’s constantly getting on my nerves, begging me to hook him up with a stash.
I grabbed two different kinds and took the first one right away—it hit me hard, knocked me flat like dust.
But right now, I don't see anything but "second-rate"—it feels like I'm just swiping through Tinder.
Hello? Hello? What? What kind of bullshit are you trying to feed me right now?
I know a lot of genuinely shady characters, and not a single one of them ever draws attention to themselves.
I wanted to be able to afford anything I desired, so I did whatever it took to make that happen.
Me and the boys bought some bolt cutters and went around vacuuming up every sandwich board sign in the city.
We’d snag fifteen of those things easy in a single night, then flip 'em later for fifteen hundred apiece.
Dude, I couldn't give a fuck about the law; I’d unload that shit without even bothering to repaint it.
Then, when "Spice" hit the streets—holy hell—that shit completely twisted everyone's minds.
If we were in school together, I’d personally kick your ass—and I don't give a damn what you have to say about it, you prick.
I only hung out with that homely chick just so I could crash at her place with my whole crew.
I was a stray cat back then, fucking my kitten right there under some stranger's balcony.
My girl is drop-dead gorgeous—smooth and perfectly rolled, just like a professional joint.
I was high on Spice when I was banging her, but in my head, I felt like I was fucking the entire cosmos.
I could make any one of my exes come running back whenever I wanted—and believe me, there’s a shitload of them.
Every single one of them knows, deep down, that they’ll never find another guy—not a single one—who’s anything like me.
My dick rubs against her so hard, I’m worried it’s about to start smoking like a hookah pipe.
We get totally spaced out together—just like Romeo and Juliet—because right now, we’ve both just downed some poison.
Bitch, I’m tripping on shrooms right now—why the hell are you shoving your hand down my pants?
You might be all polite with my exes, but I used to just fart right in their faces.
You fucking clown—get this straight: I don't give a damn about your flashy jewelry or your ridiculous "look." It’s a total circus act.
It’s an honor for a bitch to suck me off—she doesn't even care that I didn't bother washing my dick first.
Why bother trying to come up with clever punchlines? I’m just spitting out my own autobiography.
Back when I was just a kid, I pawned a ring just to make sure some skank didn't "bless" me with a baby son.
I hate condoms; every brand they sell in Russia feels like it’s putting my dick in a chokehold.
You’d better order some Magnums straight from America if this same shit keeps happening.
That bitch actually flinched away from me right when I was trying to shove it in deeper. Open wide.
Why the fuck did I even bother? Next time, cook your own damn lunch.
I’ve put on a couple of kilos, and now the bitch has the nerve to bitch that I’m smacking her in the forehead with my gut.
Go fuck yourself, you slut; you’ve got work in the morning, but I don’t have to be anywhere—so there.
Dude, you’re pathetic; don’t mess with my bitch—we both know I’m the wittier one.
If you ever actually manage to get a bitch of your own, I’ll crack a joke that’ll make it clear neither of you is needed here.
Damn, I’m too lazy to even speak right now; I’ve been baking edibles for three weeks straight.
Bitch, open your mouth—I’m about to pour something in there like it’s a mug.
Why the hell are you running your mouth? I’m a big boy—I’ve got a portable sauna stashed in the trunk of my Beemer.
Fuck your rap game; I’m recording real life—I’m not playing games with you clowns.
Bitch, I won’t ever forget you if you actually managed to take me balls-deep.
I tried to bang a chubby chick, but my dick wouldn't get hard—it was like, "Nah, I'm broken."
The narcotics squad raided me and found my stash—I told them, "Hand over my weed, assholes."
My dick isn't Emelianenko, but if it decides to get up, it’ll definitely lay you out flat.
I went over to a hooker's place, and she pulled out her sex toys—what the fuck is this, kindergarten?
The bitch admits I’m absolutely amazing, of course, but she’s sick of sucking me off all day long.
Damn, my flow is so tight there isn't even room to squeeze in any ad-libs.
I saw you naked—holy shit, your dick is strictly economy class, looks like a limp sausage.
God, I’m so tired of doing absolutely nothing all day—and still raking in the profits.
My homie is basically an electric car—hanging with him generates zero exhaust fumes.
The bitch is practically begging for a spanking, but she’s not sitting in the passenger seat right now.
What the fuck do I need "bitches" for? Just for a night out? Nah, I’ll stick to masseuses.
I remember banging a German chick—she was screaming something at me in Nazi-speak.
You’re trying to put me in the same league as those scrubs? Are you fucking insane? Go ahead—show me who you think I compare to.