BMG, ЧУДОBRO feat. Kob.RA Scratch - Сомали
текст песни

This is BMG black and white on a BMP with Gucci Gang.
And listen, I don't need meth, what we smoke here is the best.
And our girls in Moscow are all beauties like Pussycat.
And then you'll tell everyone, "We're taking your ears captive."

And I'm flying in these days without a problem, like feet in Uggs.
We're dancing on bones here, not boogie-woogie.
Our situation is bad if the cop plays tracks on the laptop.
But even so, those who are on the block, raise your hands.

Hands in hand, I'm drawing phrases from flour.
Like Picasso from the inside, I understand their entire world.
And their entire world immediately hints to me from the depths.
Like, if someone doesn't get it, I'll explain it to you with my fingers.

Here's my axe, and I'm a butcher, if you want meat, take it.
If you throw, don't miss, and hey, bro, wake up.
You're not on the same path with us if you throw your own.
We're being split into Layers, but we stubbornly stand.

It's hot here, like in Somalia.
What the fuck boots? Black and white and BMG are gathered on the microphone again.
While society is divided into layers there.
These fucking ships are haunting us.

A crimson sunset in the sky, a chain glittering on my neck.
Well, I'd also like a Porsche up my ass.
This track is like honey to my ears.
And if something happens, we open fire with a machine gun.

Romantics at heart, fanatics of their craft.
Black cart, Leningradka, it's all a fucking awesome summer.
Even though there's knee-deep shit there.

I couldn't care less about problems, my eyes are blown away by the wind.
I chose the right vector as soon as I was born.
And this sector is a prize on a drum, what the fuck is this?
Meter by meter, we're getting closer to our cherished dream.

We'll do this, fuck it, in January and summer.
Moscow dialect into the microphone anywhere on the planet.
As a racer, an athlete, I do it. Pulls
From the relay baton that I scored from paper

We're also looking at the monitor, but we're looking at the signs
Also, going down into the metro, I bring in a shitty smell
Someone tired, with an empty soul
But when half of Tushino is on my ears, I'm the first bitch here

Now, to this sound in these walls
You're unlikely to feel better, but you raise your hand
And I won't get behind the wheel for another week
All you have to do is meet with this lineup and everything is fucked

This is an underground special agency
Where it's hard to get because of a difficult childhood
Further credits and ellipsis
We've cultivated the soil for other guys here

Writing verses is not like lifting sacks
Black rap, four white guys to the sounds of deep bass drums
Try to decipher our handwriting among the ellipsis
Style honed by BMGЧБ are tearing it up again Beatles

Yo! Write down a little circle of how we rock the house
Like zombies crawling out from under the hall's layers
To the sounds of the crowd under the moonlight
Fell on the courts, bitch, clouds of smoke

YEE! Everything happens in the open air
Every step is worth its weight in gold, wherever I am
I'm obsessed with rap, especially with a marker and a Canon in hand
A fisheye lens will capture the footage

We're still in the neighborhood, treading the same paths
A courier used to deliver, but now a drone flies
If I'm at the mic, it's Mortal Kombat
Bass booms from the windows, shaking the walls of gray rooms