Ресторатор - классика - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I want to please the eye with bright colors - to paint under the classics, to gently stroke the shabby canvas with strokes. Whoever sells it to the upper classes will burn out the eyes, because the mind is breathing, taken off the brake in the form of music created, and not to honor it is like stealing in parts. It’s pointless and it would be low not to say words, because it’s so close.

after all, the musician brings music for the men in the OZK, for the ZK and for the grandfather with the staff in his own way, and it’s enough that I consciously carry my text for the man with the brain.

I would like to take all the styles, move the walls and thereby erect an indivisible and unified stimulus, but someone took into account tastes and thoughts themselves scattered like beads. Later the dogs smashed them like trash, toothless jaws kissed my feelings without a trace, an honest style for the local was lost evil spirits and as soon as I go from e4 to e2.

The libido asked to drain all the energy on the bitches, but Winamp beckoned to press play without money on vinyl, because the mana changed fris under rum and minus still ville thoughts drove to the hippodrome

Everyone was eager to write about Shcherbakova and Mas-low to the hustle after the caste concert

They wrote vocals on Acid twice after a glass, everything was in feces, but it doesn’t matter

Chevrons divided 7-8 and 5-1 into different sides so that Team could win

Kurt was writing beats, Nike was in the studio, Cat was making whiskey, and I was looking for what people would appreciate.

Prairie comments made me believe for a moment - that I don’t care about other people’s opinions

If words are distorted and currents change everything in the rows of the destination

After all, since childhood, I have been throwing pathetic change into my hat to music, walking with a shaky gait and shuffling my feet

This is the music of the city around the ora there are many so motives under pressure one handicap man

Black like Foreman - just a prop, happy in my head I’m looking for metaphors

And in order to swim to the bottom you cannot do without a tim translator, because soon a wave will cover you - believe me.

I didn't raise my hands to the sky, I don't believe it. Mono and stereo rush me - music is a mystery

My hysteria lies in wait in couplets with the soul made, tearing them out of the body

My talent is a psycho, wrapped in hydrants, a sitcom blaring the computer with texts with obscenities

Atami of fate in the player wolfman rap erases folkman, my sheep eat up the wolf.

I spit in the fucking faces with a clang when they throw tchotchkes on the mass graves

I write rap and I myself am burning in hellish fire - they write that it’s great and I don’t lower my head

Tracks - new chapters, locked in an enclave, by the way - rap glory van love

having rightfully absorbed the image of the fantasist opus dei, he will reward so that hundreds of eyes are empty in this matter

I'm married to rap and crucified by the sky, rhymes stand on end under my impulse

the yards hit you in the face from that time on, when I playfully cooked my style

we know what it’s seasoned with, how it’s prepared, how it’s served, and most importantly, how many servings

Island lover? Catch the imprisoned staff from the Kola Peninsula on your feet

without music you won’t know that you can impose knots if you write a track under the backing minuses

hang in the right places and therefore you can’t turn the helm back and blow away the sails

Anyone who has erased their phrases a hundred times knows that thoughts, like birds, fly so quickly

paper and word text are caught by force a jam-packed cage will open only with a jam-pack

And on the network on the walls I visited my start and win from 5-1 and enslave ahead

It’s time to get out while I twist the thread of bail soberly, because you see that the image cuts your hands with a blade

You can see from the windows a curved cocoon of a cloud in the form of a tupac or a biting apple

You still see what you want in the sky, but I saw myself in rap and put a minus on rap

He demands a lot and ripples his pocket, he is plastered with concrete words and it’s noticeable

This is the eclipse of the bronze horseman, do not give him the bread saved for the poor