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текст песни

Stillborn Clown Show
Battle rap, go fuck yourself
I cashed in my best years
On you—worthless as novelty-shop bills
Because of you, my style now
Is filled not with love, but with hate
You two-faced creature—worse than CatDog
So many years pissed away!
I’ve outgrown you, I’ve had my fill
Demand for you has dropped; you’ve fallen into slavery
Your slave collar is a neck brace
Dolzhansky spins you around like nunchucks
If battles are a culture—it’s cancel culture
Do as you’re told, or the comments get trashed
Do as you’re told—you want the cash?
Battle rap is as free as a bank debtor
Burn with shame, burn at the stake
Step left—you’re shot; step right—you’re shot
This isn’t Cupid’s arrow from a bow
The crowd’s love is a cheap whore
Hold up the "star attraction"—the nail in your hand
And you’ll bleed out and die from the wound
And it’s all your own fault—you loved that bitch:
The wider your embrace, the easier it is to crucify you
Stillborn clown show
Bending over backwards for donations
Buy some culture—home delivery included
Battle rap, go fuck yourself
I loathe you with every fiber of my being
I don’t want anything from you anymore
Not a single ruble, not a single fan
Battle rap, go fuck yourself
Fuck your battle rap, fuck your circus tent
Inside it, I’m something between "it’s all the same" and "it’s just not the same anymore"
But there is only one way out. You’re not going anywhere
You don’t like my battle style?
Don’t worry. I’ll change it. I’m switching gears.
I don’t have to like you—why the hell should I try to please you?
You want some meat in a "fast flow" sauce, served with a side of dense lyrics?
What else do you desire? Ready to place your order?
A click on a video won't pay for dinner.
I blew my shot at the hype—and frankly, I don't need it anymore.
Change my style? Run away from reality?
Be a fucking errand boy for a bunch of kids?
Fuck you all, you bottom-feeders.
I don't understand this "dirty laundry" culture.
And I don't *want* to understand it.
I'm too smart—and too old—for this shit.
It takes lice to preach about hygiene.
I have zero interest in other people's lives.
Rummaging through a stranger's shit?
That’s definitely not what a real man should be doing.
Stream goes live—*Gas Light*.
Step left—it’s a setup; step right—it’s a punchline.
Stand still, bitch, and relax your ass cheeks.
Here comes the needle—right in the approval slot.
I’m no longer a player in this game.
I don't give a fuck about wins or losses.
Deleting my account. Forgetting the password.
Everything that came before—I’m zeroing it out.
A stillborn circus act.
They’ll bend over backwards for a few donations.
Buy yourself some "culture"—home delivery included.
Battle rap—go fuck yourself.
I loathe you with every fiber of my being.
I don't want a single thing from you anymore.
Not a ruble, not a fan.
Battle rap—go fuck yourself.
This whole journey...
Just like the second season of RNB—it’s a dead end.
If I ever decide to give the young guns a chance, I’ll be back...
As a schoolteacher.
I don't need anything from the battle scene.
Battle rap can go fuck itself.
Maybe for a month. Maybe for a year.
Maybe forever.
We'll see how it goes.