Текст песни
Tones of matches are crammed in small boxes of the city
Under the repression of the poet in 1950
And they will throw firewood at us, pouring hot oil on the garbage bags
War against your love, but riot police will leave scars
We like bones of a wild pack of a dogs
The devils bequeathed us in their books about the roads to fucking hell
The stale smell, of loss of paradise gem
Screams noise in their homes
Every white collar worker thinks he's a big boss
You are not my father, I get hit by my fucking stepfather
The pain of tormenting chaos
And feet from the unmoved ground
This track is the voice of russia sound
Eternal escape as if on a treadmill
They think their skill is their citizens kill
And the coldness of emptiness and anticipation of the next day
Chill boy, smoking cannabis, this is for every day
White robe of privileges or psychopath robe
Pezam, wait, how much more fire will there be on this globe
And behind a pile of ruined girlfriend with signs of life
Forgive me for my existence outside the checkerboard zone knife
If you decide to kill, then it is better with a bullet in the forehead
Kill me, checking check
You got ghetto hoods, we got ghetto country
I can't wash the grayness from my eyes with this wild fucking sundry
On Demand Credit Calls
Credits in gray fucking box
Expensive things to pay with your life
Young soldier, what a machine gun could imagine from sticks and knife
Adult drinker, former dreamer
Graveyards of lost targets with high hope
Looking for paint where blows up a dope
I will come out of the window like from a coma
Throwing a trash bag
The stench of the funeral mind
Trash World
