Gudium - Паутина 2
текст песни

I will spit with three boxes
That for my goal is a fucking play
On the web that I will spit
Lry a pan on the stove
And let her fry me
In a series of small fires
That under a brush of mustache rusty
Inflie up with a mill of Kilimanjaro
Sleaks to a smoke break
Eight -handed Karakurt
Caricature pun
Speaks from speech figures
Prophetic what the creator is dead
As a family man and as a father
That getting through to heaven
Donetsk
And there I rested almost like
Celibate chill in the anguish of the veins
The microphone in the abyss of Kruchin
For the public, I soaked myself in the background
Crawled out of the gorge like a Shelob
The referers braided kosher
Not every Sherlock will unwind
Threads to the semantic vent
We live in a gloomy world
And there are no friends at sunset
But in this general broadcast
We will all get somewhere
For a poor spider
The track 60 is not easy
But following the guidelines
Craduate for sure
Copping tugs
I will not get to the end
In this gloomy world
Minutes in months
But while the gorillas of Boshka are smoking
Spider Web weaves slowly
I will spit with three boxes
That for my goal is a fucking play
On the web that I will spit
Lry a pan on the stove
And let her fry me
In a series of small fires
That under a brush of mustache rusty
Inflie up with a mill of Kilimanjaro
Notes - laboratory
Yes, the Web-Shooter microphone
I'm an allegory label
Crawl and besides jokes (Yau)
The responsibility comes with force
It is more difficult to amend friendly
Actions and their consequences
By knocking you immediately under investigation
This is how freedom dies (oh yes)
Under the applause thunder
Spit on me to the sky
And I am a woven non
I catch a star in the sky Tom
Zvezdato burn in fire with a hit
My penates are now not concrete
After all, the stars in the sky have a house
But mom waves outside the window
The baby cries and screams
You even thought about that
What if you don't win
Do not hit them with your mind
Pictures and a muscle
What will happen to you later
Mom I Guess We’ll Never Know
I will spit with three boxes
That for my goal is a fucking play
On the web that I will spit
Lry a pan on the stove
And let her fry me
In a series of small fires
That under a brush of mustache rusty
Inflie up with a mill of Kilimanjaro
I will spit with three boxes
I go out
On the web that I will spit
On the stove
And let it fried
In fires
That smolder the burla of Kilimanjaro