Gunj Pasteur - Русский рэп
текст песни

Fucked-up shit in my head, sometimes a riot
Enough of scaring us with the authorities, bones are crunching in the basements
Every second person is underground, style connoisseurs or faggots
Out, we've seen a lot of shit here with our brothers

They were probably looking for profit, but in Russian rap
It won't work out, drunk scarecrows move their bodies in clubs
What is hip-hop, the history of music in your face, the truth
Not pop but Bambataa, art is not in battles

The Leningrad blockade from the pathos of the West, that's how it should be
Belarusians, Tatars, crests and Russians, that's our crew
We dig deeper and deeper, not guided by herd instincts
Until my hand gets tired of writing, I won't see the pedestal
Don't be afraid if the truth is on your side

Life puts our brother before a choice
Choose, music, family or rot away in prison
Since sixteen, drowned in hangovers, highs
Drug troubles and trips in pairs

In these ranks there are alcoholics from the fifth grade
They are taught to be better, parents scold them in vain

Think about it, are you delirious or just gone crazy?
There's no great money in this field
No luxurious rooms and crisp bills in wallets
The West laughs at Russian rappers

Maybe they don't even look at all, and to hell with them
Your task here is not to lose your mind and feelings
To ridicule various parasites of art
With a pure heart, skillfully fight for the truth

The second coming to your house, no need for bright colors
Big-assed chicks, special forces masks
My district, long live those who understood
Thought about different things, and not just getting high on the bass

Sometimes we are different, although we are all made of flesh
What's the difference, a provincial is used to fighting
There is no equality, in In the capital, everyone pursues their own interests
Life is cramped there, and people are constantly hustling

Are you ever sober on weekends?
It's a local joke, guys here have been smoking since childhood
There's no fear of suddenly waking up with gray hair
Thin, hungry, the main thing is to seem cool

Apparently, image is considered sacred here
The city's rhythm is driven by parties, clubs, and hangouts
It's sad, reason goes down the drain
You shouldn't hinder those who won't betray art

Think about it, are you delirious or just crazy?
There's no great money in this field
No luxurious rooms or wads of cash in wallets
The West laughs at Russian rappers

Maybe they don't even look, and who cares
Your task here is not to lose your mind and feelings
To ridicule various parasites of art
To fight skillfully for the truth with a pure heart