Зелёный Орк - русская народная
текст песни

Hey everyone—I guess I’ll tell you my story.
I hope you won’t get bored, and that you’re wearing headphones right now.
Or maybe you’ve been listening to this whole track in your car.
Or maybe *you* are the car—or maybe *you* are the headphones.
I’m writing this track in the subway, absolutely fucking mind-blown.

Because instead of heading down the main avenue, I ended up on the Botanical line.
It’s five to midnight—at least I managed to make it into a train car.
What would I have done otherwise? Either a taxi or a long walk home.
Walking is good for you, anyway—let’s not panic.

Yeah, I’m sure it’d be just *great* to walk all the way from Elmash to Botanika.
I’ll get home, and there’ll be nothing to eat—total fucking disaster again.
If only you knew how sick and tired I am of eating tuna.
Here’s a fucked-up story: I’m riding in a taxi with a close female friend of mine.

She goes, "Dan, could you spot me 100k on my card? It’s no trouble for you, right?"
I’m like, "Nah, of course not," and head over to an ATM.
I deposit the cash... but it doesn't show up on the card. I’m like, "What the fuck?"
I was absolutely flabbergasted—man, if only you guys could have seen me.

Up until then, those "iron creations"—the machines—had never screwed me over.
I got home, got undressed, lay down—everything seemed fine.
Except for one thing: Brian—my dog—isn't talking to me anymore.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—time to head to work.

I sprint to the subway station—doing my best Usain Bolt impression.
I really ought to wake up earlier so I can make it there without rushing.
Work starts at 9:00, but I don't get up until 8:05.
I stand outside the station, just observing the scene; there’s a homeless guy across from me—I know him, he’s actually a decent dude.
Instead of cologne, he’s wearing nothing but lice and nits.
But he seems so free regardless—I still kind of envy him.

Oh, my life... it’s a total tin can.
To hell with it—let it rot in a swamp!
I’m living like a poisonous toadstool...
But all I really want to do is fly! My hands are ice-cold; I need to run—and fast.
With these wild eyes, I look just like Rami Malek.
Every day feels like *Groundhog Day*—give me a game plan!
Something’s tearing through me from the inside—a shitty implant.

More thoughts, less time—tick-tock.
Anyone standing by my side is a green flag.
If a text comes in from some bitches, it’s just total bullshit.
To hell with that kind of leisure—my heart is already taken.

You look tough on the outside, but that’s just pure, unadulterated crap.
You’ve got balls, sure—but they look like quail eggs to me.
Phil paints his verses onto the canvas like Aivazovsky.
Meanwhile, I can’t see a damn thing—I’m basically Mike Wazowski.

Inside my head, the demons are chatting over walkie-talkies.
I never carried textbooks back in the day; now my briefcase holds stock shares.
No matter what you say, I don’t believe you anymore.
I never realized your *true* potential lay in talking absolute shit.

I’m in Yekaterinburg right now—this is where my soul resides.
I’m sporting a tattoo: the Ministry of Swagger.
Come to think of it, things aren’t actually that hard—
You just have to think with your head, not with what’s sitting south of your navel.

I’m definitely never buying nubuck shoes again.
Mad respect to everyone reppin’ the Ministry—you badasses.
Oh, life—you rusty old tin can...
To hell with it—let it sink in the swamp!
I’m living like a poisonous toadstool...
But all I really want to do is fly.