ОУ74 feat. ТГК - Город Дыма
текст песни

Evening Chelyabinsk 2010 September
smoke the same, unfiltered pouring
so smoothly, things, plans you are about the main thing
I tell the folding, it became cool
so it is necessary, in my city the stars is not visible
This is a city of smoke, under the sky a long web
Concrete Wall, Glass Windridge
Picture floats White Widow - it's strong
In the minus player from PRIO, the rhyme excerpt
I'm moving with beer, I made a sip, lit the siga
on the first line the topic of Medo, it is by
On the second Moscow - concert, do how much flip
In the case, I pounced a bump on the back
the third option from two, even something was killed
siren was silent, in the sleeping time froze
I closed my eyes, drove bitter smoke
moved straight to the house, but then changed his mind
On the way, he met a friend, hydraphone
somewhere the wilds of the districts roam dark figures
I thought about white and black, zhka will smoke?
In a long corridor, twilight, smoke
Tankograd Underground Rap, I put a comma
climb, cool will be cool, let's at the studio tomorrow
Then people will be charged on stage in the club

Chelyabinsk 2010, autumn
We decide questions, Tosi-Bosi
We ask for a visit, the voice of the city on Poltos
put the head of the highlight, the city on the weave
rushed, kathed vodka
between the first and second break short
still on a pinch, last year's jamali on last year's pictures
laughs but not from ticking
Weight of the words you Russia with love to be lucky
Everything has grown, thieved porridge second paddle
Time will tell what to do, and our and yours
We are as before, at the real ebash
Sky in puddles, dinner not found
I listened to Mouzon, stolen a pear
The regime is broken, huli running out
Streets are spinning, bought Sigi, I was attempted
it was not a coffee ground
I read on myself Evo-Evolution
The voice of the future in me told me
This music will be alive
I believe him, but I will definitely check
Then something from the series corridor and doors
A bunch of some kind of chiri, clouds, gray september
Autumn, 2010 Chelyab

Yobaa, this is not Brooklyn,
Lake number 1 Kopit corpses,
rotten plans of red hands,
But you warned when you threw off my hands, you will see these people, but be on a check otherwise by the morning,
Four Walls of Chirika your trico rubbed,
The courtyards are full of unpredictability
And you will be unharmed and we suddenly delay.
This is a city of smoke, machinery and factories,
And so this deh air smacks the air,
From the fence, color, from gray in color Bright graphs covering.
Cold, neck rewinded by a scarf,
Carchat cap, velvet bottle,
In the transition salted, the turns of the people,
I go to the CP to healthy diving in the arch.

All deeper in the debris of this zoo,
Dude in a green vest pokes a stick,
From the shadow of the Avenue of Sirens, Flashing
give the inspector the right fishing. I go to the red,
the day was cloudy,
Dirt at the curb text Adidas.
Past of SPOTOV, gases,
District workers in a hurry is not late.
Cough cut from the subsoil of the lungs,
Thoughts are loaded with Lechina's music,
so little air with each breath
In these shrouded blocks.
I hear your city in an arch acoustics
penetrated by cold he breathes steam
heaven gray so old
Above the roofs and sidewalks.

Twisted in paper Tobac burns language
threw the cigarette butt on the asphalt, the coal crumbled,
In the closed car buzz bass,
Birds flew in the tight side where I was moving.
Around me the factory district near the shore of the lake, in the air, a mixture of Gary and freshness.
Morning earlier, autumn late, closer to winter beets the terrain.
Here who is sparkled who came to whom they closed, who walled land, the kingdom of heaven.
I am grateful to this city of smoke for the fact that I am brought up in the spotlessness.
In the networks of the social system, where we all move as we can do not care.
Everything is also against her more often our topics, on non-format songs joint.