Культурное Наследие - Объект
текст песни

Underground culture—that is our heritage.
We give it our all every time, as if it were our last.
For those who truly appreciate the old-school shit:
We command respect here—you can’t put a price tag on us.
A new name in rap, but not the "New School."
We’re rocketing to the top, just like Tereshkova.
A successful launch; the flight is proceeding as planned.
We are Alexandra and Sofya—not some trendy "sashimi."
The blinkered herd jerks off to the top of the charts;
That wretched music consistently breeds degenerates.
Meanwhile, five people who truly stand for the culture
Are here to remind you what real hip-hop is all about.
The power of the beat and the word—that is our foundation.
Don't be shy, step right up—we're serving up some prime cuts here:
Choice rap from the mountain region,
The final product of sheer, relentless grind.
We’re crashing in, feet first,
Into the underground rap and hip-hop scene.
Don't know who "Culture Heritage" is? Damn, you’re a total scrub.
It’s '31, son—don't get it twisted; I’m no god on the beat.
I just stepped up, inhaled the smoke, dropped the flow—and this is the result.
No Rolexes on our wrists—just a couple grams of hydroponics.
Our cultural devotees have donned their body armor; the "Heritage" track is loaded and locked in the chamber.
In every city—our people are always on the line:
Sanya Buba, Sega Skomer, Vadan, Puga, and Kaluga.
We won't do a feature with Basta—we’ll do one with Mishanya Krug.
Sorry if that sounded crude, but your girl was definitely climaxing
When the boys from the hood rocked the very walls of the club.
Our tracks are like the poetry of Sergei Yesenin:
They’ll remember us for centuries—or else we’ll end up scattered across the brothels...
Should the holy host ever cry out:
"Forsake your Rus', come live in Paradise!" I’ll say: "Forget paradise—just give me back my homeland."
Today, my glass is half-full with Simonsig Brut.
I steer my life like a race car—like The Stig.
Don't be in a rush to toss dirt on me or lay down carnations.
The punks are pedaling their bikes—while Lyokha drives a truck.
While the losers are pumping iron, I’m pumping concrete.
I’m crashing into the rap industry to drop some grimy shit.
Forgot to wear a condom again; living the rap life is like "bombing" graffiti tags.
In this game, the risk is the sweetest part of all.
I pump the main lines "bareback"—without rubber seals—because the job allows for experiments, and I love the extreme.
But fortunately, clogged concrete-pump pipes have long since become mainstream.
On the weekends, with yet another beauty by my side, sipping on champagne...
I know my son won't go hungry while Dad blows cash on some new junk.
Having spent half my life in "slacker mode"...
I know there’s no better combo than a Partagas and a shot of Zakapa.
Sitting somewhere on a leather couch as the sun sets...
I’m sending out another fiery shout-out—straight from a true gentleman.
This "Mighty Handful" is dropping some serious bars once again.
We’ve got the blue-collar guys, the family men, and the entrepreneurs here...
So what about you? How are things on your end, you dogs? Hip-hop as a lifestyle—over a pint of Guinness
On a sunny day, I lay it down over this Westside beat
Blond-haired style—have you heard of Skomi’s taste?
With the years come more troubles, so I’d better roll one up again
Like Luka Dončić, I’m gonna fuck you up all season long
Catch this Fat Joe vibe and say thank you to your pops
We lay it down with cultural heritage—appreciate my Yeltsin flow
Five tourists in the capital, under the guidance of the elder
We’re cruising on infrared, just peeled off the MKAD
In the back of the Alphard sit five MCs
Shout-outs to the red-hats—the cops are everywhere
But we keep charging confidently right into the hip-hop scene
Sending a shout-out to the hoes—yeah, I dropped a load right in their mouths again
Five wild styles
For the brothers and the streets
We didn't just rock the flow!
The delivery is bulletproof!
No need to swing
A sledgehammer at a tire
Just to look a little bigger in this room!
No matter how hard you train
You’ll always find a machine
Cultural Heritage—
From a demo track straight to a banger!
Son, but you forgot—
This is the underground
There is no "top" here!
You tried to throw some shade
But this sucker sounds completely off-key!
Their moves are nothing but a rental ride
I’d love to be dining at a Michelin spot in Hawaii
But instead, I keep running into
More targets staring down the barrel of my gun
I move around a little tipsy
But I’m never in want
I’m dropping verses late at night with Fet
Got no time for relationships
I won’t step away from the business of Cultural Heritage
Not even for a bitch of federal importance