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I do not wear a beard, I do not go stubborn,

But if the microphone falls on my arm, I lose my head,

But not your own, but yours, I have enough gunpowder, still my Floo gives a head start here, Ormash is here so that you do not write on the forums.

I read double when you still label milk.

And my square Ku, on Punch Hook, and the ring is here, so do not ask for whom the bell calls.

Yes, I have grown from Poltava where I grew up and fell, and where I read it for the first time under the bit,

And it was the same glorious Battle of Poltava under the sky,

My squeaky voice infuriates you, cuts you very much in your ears, your head will fluff and in truth you are right, it cuts from ear to ear, acute razor.

The first capital of the seventh meet I returned to City based on which the meaning is based,

Who will have rhymes and flow for one hundred, an occasion will check what my speed is ready for.

No matter how easily they try to re -read and as if advertising news I beg you, forbid me to speed this Fastflow Nah.

Rap voice of streets, but rappers teach us with beer in their hand.

Everything is cool, brutal, everything is super punchline.

But alas, I will become nobody with your rap.

Hello mannequin, write to me that this is not a rap, looking up from business but, through E, and separately. Although it doesn’t matter what is it like that, so the lads in the internet blame me for the texts for the mind

Your small hemispheres are incomprehensible words in them and you to Bulradi, even more so my d,

And those who take a step forward, what are the people of your mothers and you will fall, they will fuck you assure you will be cool, there will be wow

So cut the guys, then they will say sorry, this is Batle, brother.

It sounds cool to the beat, my heart is read out, my real shield is for you, as if in me there is a chip there,

So don’t call me better on the battles because I'm inadequate dumbass, Vkontakte you say this Batle,

But at least you understood a drop of my frantic partyplin, the bit like a springboard is my salvo Pu.

And not well -fed nonsense for whiskey, let's barter commentators and wall schedules,

I am a rap you are my middle fingers, I agree? Now cut the brush

In order to no longer print, and if you print, then print with elbows for screeching.

And those who builds the brains and not throw stones, on the seventh of February, Artyom Loik “Museum”, Kharkovites.

“Return me to me,” at five, the whole world froze, you, I, and rap between us.

After the X-factor, after the talents, after Moscow, after Versus`a, Batla, after she took off and how I fell, I return to read to the city of Kharkov.