NikitaFry - Жёлтый человек
текст песни

It seems not everyone is cut out to make it alone in this city.
Any gig with a steady paycheck is already snatched up by the bosses' sons.
It’s wolf eat wolf out here—squabbles, brawls, a concrete jungle.
Toss that diploma; nobody here is waiting to welcome you with open arms.
Foreign cars whiz by while old ladies shuffle along the pavement.
Weaving around them, some dude in a yellow T-shirt flies past on a scooter.
"All jobs are noble"—that’s the hypocrites' motto.
But nobody—the hell they do—wants to walk a mile in *his* shoes.
The boss wants cash, a new Benz; to him, you’re just a disposable cog.
Someone might drop dead, but the main thing is: don't let it leak onto the web.
Your ass isn't allowed to ache; just suck it up and work a double shift.
Fines, penalties—and the rent on that crummy hotel just went up again.
You won't earn enough delivering food to buy yourself a ride.
Your precious life force is sold for peanuts, then flushed down the drain.
Our grandfathers flew to the stars and pored over Marx...
Just so their grandsons could run around with delivery bags—serving the fat cats and counting their cash.
Nikita figured all this out a long time ago. That’s why he gave this whole "hustle" the finger.
This whole rat race for cash and career climbing—he told it all to go screw itself.
The system offers nothing but empty promises and lies.
Chase after them, and you’ll end up squeezed dry and spat out into the toilet bowl.
What else can they force a man to do?
For pennies on the dollar: slap on a cap, clip on a name tag...
"Welcome, valued customers!"—then grab your bucket, broom, and cleaning supplies.
Your yellow delivery bag weighs you down, and by the end of the shift, your shoe insoles are worn through.
Meanwhile, somewhere else, the sun is shining; somewhere else, the air is fresh and clean.
Somewhere else, people are out sailing the open sea in a pristine white boat.
But that’s not in the cards for you, my friend.
Your mom gave birth to you with the wrong last name—and in the wrong damn corner of the planet.
To hell with this job! *Kick* the office door right off its hinges.
Is that not enough for you, you bastards? Who’s the prick sending out emails about *new* fines now? You talk a big game on the phone—so why did you fold in real life?
Here, have a cake right on your head—it’s a special delivery from your homie.


Yellow Man, Yellow Man
Yellow Man, Yellow Man
Yellow Man, Yellow Man