MC Кальмар, ФУГОЛЬ feat. МС Ваня Сидоров - Думеры
текст песни

This hip-hop sounds sketchy—
Just as sketchy as Gaboro blasting away point-blank with a Glock.
Yeah, life is a hardcore shooter—
You never know who ends up where.
Some are into sports, others run escort services—
And yet, everyone here fits the mold perfectly.
We’re a motley crew, you could say—
Like the random clips on TikTok.
So what the hell do I care about your reproaches? I’m happy as a clam—like Cheems the cat (meow).
Day after day, treading along well-worn paths.
It sucks when you just don't get the joke—
Always wearing a sad face, taking everything so seriously.
Day after day, we just muddle through this routine,
Casting wary, side-long glances at one another.
The RKN has assigned ID numbers to rappers,
Having long since divided us into "us" and "them."
Expect a new show later this year—
And don't bother overthinking it too much;
The global script has already been written by someone else.
Call me a gray, average "doomer"—
I just fly over the beat on pure instinct.
I dream of only one thing:
That there be peace, and that every barefoot soul finds shoes to wear,
That troubles pass us by completely—
Though, in typical fashion, we’ll blow things out of proportion (as always).
I’ve grown older, and my lyrics have grown more serious,
Yet we’re still grinding away in the underground scene.
Here—we’ve dropped a couple of tracks for you.
It’s an era of clickbait headlines and manufactured narratives,
But it’s not quite as simple as all that.
We stand at the crossroads of eras—and frankly, we don't give a damn.
I’m withdrawing from the worldly hustle and bustle,
And increasingly, I sense a catch in the people I meet.
My thoughts settled onto the beat—which, actually, isn't half bad—
While you guys swarmed the comments section like a bunch of fleas.
Listen up: get the hell off Lyokha's back!
He’s a little busy right now—
As always, he’s out there making moves and handling business.
He knows the score, buddy—he knows how to make a buck,
While some folks just sit on their asses, spouting nothing but "blah, blah, blah."
We’ve got plans for the future—
Provided the world doesn't just slide smoothly down the drain first.
But for now, we’re spinning the wheel like on the *Field of Miracles*.
Now it’s your turn, bro.
I landed a solid punchline in that verse—
I’m sick to death of this whole "style" obsession.
I’ll raise my little son to embody all the good things in life—
Anything beyond that would just be superfluous filler.
What "phone calls"? Emil just got shipped off to the penal colony! Volodya—Rostov; Hitler—kaput.
She’s right here, so don’t go nagging my brain.
Let this sound drifting from the stairwell reach you like prose.
I couldn't give a damn about your winter frost, spring, or autumn.
MC Ivan is on the beat, absolutely killing every verse.
Every single day of mine is a prism.
Just let it go—please, I’m asking you.
For the sake of you, my loved ones, I’m slaving away at a construction site for pennies.
Don’t feed me your bullshit; I’ve already crumpled up your little bag of tricks.
I’ve never talked trash about my own crew—not even as a joke.
Put that beat on replay—that’s our underground sound! Let’s hear you scream!
So what if Mirov said, "You’re all about the athletics, Sidor"?
So what if he’s a force to be reckoned with in the hood?
And a true original when it comes to melodies? He said, "We were blowing smoke."
I saw it with my own eyes—for real!
Temych is stirring things up again, cooking up a couple of new schemes.
And Leonid? He’s right here—always right here.