Ноу Мо Копюшон - Мне Без Разницы
текст песни

The loads are completed, Mr. Nou MO on the disk.
Now everyone has turned into bloggers, *Butterly absorptions.
And I still keep a notebook and pen into the cage.
The sky dictated something to me, I folded all the lines.

I stopped trusting everyone who, on the monastery of all the mixer.
Money, sluts, NARK*TO spinning more than leaves.
I called them, but they are silent there, after - a movement, plans.
I was told farther, to see this and I have to.

He throws snow from under the wheels, people are moving.
We have been living here for hundreds of years, but nothing changes.
My parents are for thousands of kilometers of snow;
And my heart somewhere with them lives among the blizzards.

I always thought that the numbers are anxiom
Created for other students, and I hang on the posters.
Directors-Chiefs, sad Mondays.
And those who reject the world will call you loafers.

Here is only faith in himself, to heaven, in God.
Mom, are you looking into my eyes, how will the doctor help there?
I see Staffan pass by under my window.
As in 2008, I get acquainted with rap again.

I was absent here for half a year, I do not regret anything,
But if it would be delayed there would be harder.
I saw the notes of people, they say - listen and open.
And I, I wanted to convey that I need to live and fight.

But I will stay here, a sad knee know on the player;
And to get to my concert - you do not need flyers yet.
I am outside myself, outside you, in bad weather.
Today - you write, create; Tomorrow - take out an eraser.

Here everyone wants to catch you by the hand, poke with text.
But in the icy vessels of the heart you do not have enough space.
While getting home - I will refuse to blow five times.
Past balconies and corners about the meaning of life to think.

Here someone’s inscriptions on the walls, like a mental tremor.
Welcome to our world, where the birds are shit for marble.
Here you can’t add problems for us - you try to take them away.
If you lived in my country, there is always something to note.

It’s so cold outside, in white “Eira” correctly.
Where are you now finding - Engels, Sonya Crooked?
This is some kind of season there, one of the series of "abandoned".
Mr. Nou Mo writes the album, not letting go of the past.

In my windows StoryTelling, it is better not to see you.
Light falls, the baby does not sleep, he looks at the old vidica.
There, on the record, that now is the past.
I seem good on the record.

There, on the record, that now is the past.
And I seem good on the record.
He tears my soul on my record.
It doesn't matter to me who will listen to it.

There, on the record, that now is the past.
And I seem good on the record.
He tears my soul on my record.
It doesn't matter to me who will listen to it.

Who is this...
Who will listen to it.
Who will be ...
Who will be ...