Текст песни Twin Vi - Потерянное поколение

The southeast trade wind breathed a sense of dread;
On DB, a flat was burgled—scaled via the rear drainpipe.
Politics strikes the lowest rungs; a young guy drags a leash behind him—
The Ladozhsky Station has become his home instead.
The southeast trade wind breathed a sense of dread;
On DB, a flat was burgled—scaled via the rear drainpipe.
Politics strikes the lowest rungs; a young guy drags a leash behind him—
The Ladozhsky Station has become his home instead.
Nike, Adidas—that’s the dress code. A gun barrel in your face? Time to flee.
It’s a concession to youth—a discount. Stockings and mini-skirts—the height of fashion.
I know for a fact: their life strategy is always a "knight's move"—
Like an independent escort on Nevsky Prospect—a real find, even in broad daylight.
You wave your paws in support of Greenpeace, but youth itself is green and naive—
So tell me: what exactly is up with your bearings? It’s as if a veil has fallen over my eyes.
But even if you’re a total novice, you still have a boiling point.
The artist is consumed by despair, so he spouts nothing but half-baked opinions.
Scraping together pennies—it’s no Hyundai, but in these brutal winters, even reindeer roam these streets.
The school kids are either hooked on hentai or getting high—drifting along like a breeze on the Lena River.
You might find a needle in a haystack, but I’m the diss track running through your veins.
Seven days a week—I’m like an Adventist preaching to the bohemian crowd.
Lifting a generation from the bottom feels like a total blackout in Cape Town.
I lay in bed, drenched in a cold sweat—like Polanski waiting for the Cannes Film Festival.
Luck brushes past them for a fleeting moment as they pass the cannabis amongst themselves.
But a mess boy is no economist; a collab with an outcast will only drag you down.
Terror was carried in on the southeast trade winds.
Over in DB, they broke into an apartment—climbing back down the drainpipe to make their escape.
Politics deals a crushing blow to the lower classes; a young guy drags his dog along on a leash.
The Ladoga Railway Station has become his only home.
Terror was carried in on the southeast trade winds.
Over in DB, they broke into an apartment—climbing back down the drainpipe to make their escape.
Politics deals a crushing blow to the lower classes; a young guy drags his dog along on a leash.
The Ladoga Railway Station has become his only home.
The kid with the club is a Flintstone. He strikes blindly, leaving you with amnesia—a real Kingston.
Buying a high school diploma—it’s easier than buying a pack of Winstons. Every last one of them—their vision’s blurred and doubled.
But, just like Jamal from TGK says: not a single stone will be left standing.
And so, too, will I flush guys like that down the drain right here—drop by drop.
The asphalt never dries; there are thousands of piles beneath it—a foundation wrecked and devoid of sand.
Weight in your socks—you’re a chip off the old block; across the bridge lies the High-Frequency Zone—Moscow.
Every motherfucker out there suffered incest in his childhood.
Trapped in a room two-by-two, cramped tighter than inside a virgin.
At fifteen, they’re already marching to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March; meanwhile, I live in St. Petersburg—an anomalous zone.
LSD under the tongue—a minimal dose—and some underage girl strikes a zodiacal pose.
Your buddy’s sitting on a chair, but you’re the one sitting on the bottle.
Your final day will dawn upon you—landing like a bear’s paw on your ear.
A southeastern trade wind blew in, bringing with it sheer terror.
Over in DB, they burgled a flat—climbing back down the drainpipe to make their escape.
Politics keeps hammering the lower classes; a young kid gets dragged along on a leash.
For him, the Ladoga Railway Station has become his only home.