She doesn't pick up the phone from me, why the fuck are you so cocky?
The urine splashed from the cup, a crumpled psyche like a fragile viscose
Like this fucking forehead from a bad mouth
The swearing flies, the unknown pornography takes off the kicks
From St. Petersburg to Oryol to the mouth and spits
I chewed candies from the grave in the ground, the boots are fake
The icons of the gods are set, the ex-wife writes
Sliva, you're done, it's half past three
Why the fuck don't you sleep? It's half past three
We carry a friend to the village, he doesn't want to live in a bath anymore
The minstrel is mixed with warm water, the old woman's shit is dripping
The triple-sex mafia was playing in my communal apartment
The anger is polluted in the old toilet
I want to take her to St. Petersburg, Russia, spring
The wind is Baltic, he's eating, you're a fucking bomb
It's damp and smells like shit here, but you remember the main thing
You can't keep happiness, you can't keep it with your lips
In the forest panic, the man with his feet in the anus
Krapalil, Kemal, I looked down at your eyes
Are you ready to swallow gondons?
But if there will be three wounds in them
Already a year on hormones, here you already have something to touch
Hello, girlfriend, goodbye, my brother
Ovyankin, you're done, they write
Well, sorry, it just happened
What came out of the bad mouth
Pieces of undercooked junk
Over the rusty point of the aorta
But even here I am strangled by a toad
I get out of overdoses, detox
And from detox I dive back
Everyone thought I was a saint
In these barracks of gulag
I would like to believe
But I put on the last spark of hope
Until I run out of money
I will not stop to comfort myself with shit
My unclosed gestalt
Listening during a conversation
Words get stuck in the ears
Bitter, brown, orange, gray
In the head 0 ideas
How convenient it is to always be in the tonic phase
Every my rainbow day
This castration through ball busting
And then the reward
I'm going to Askin Robbins
If you're next to her
You have a snort
You have a snort
Rotten smell on the sixth day
Waste is sour in the kitchen
But you have a substance
That is more toxic than the south-eastern horde
And like a wet sock
Everything will be tolerated and absorbed
You were walking on the skin
A bag with a white inscription
Who knew, goodbye, my brother
I will hang the props of your mother
For the rest of Dakota Nakatima
I will hang the props of your mother
For the rest of Dakota Nakatima
I will hang the props of your mother
For the rest of Dakota Nakatima