Текст песни Каспийский груз - Пули в обойме

Chorus: [x4]
Bullets in the clip.
Don't whine
It does not hurt.

Verse One: Caspian Cargo
They say that happy hours are not observed.
Then fuck you huddle? - Give us the watch.
Know if the boys came in black cayenne
Change the "Stop" position to the "Knees" position.

Well, why are you poking a grin in our face?
One step we take and a board will fall over you.
And I dragged such a life on my shoulders,
So that it is strictly in the palm of your hand, and not at the temple.

We'll take all the buzz for ourselves, bitch.
Are you so bored at this holiday?
I can walk a long time in search of an answer.
If there are really no answers, I will turn to God.

Our specialization is narrow.
Do you want to get pussies?
It is recommended to read the instructions.
While you were climbing Turkey with a friend,
We cleaned your hut online services.

A tasty morsel for those on shoulder straps, uncle.
And we count our capital in a rented hut.
And how much money they grabbed, everyone wants to find out.
This will only be known to God and in an interview with Dudya.

And we will scatter everything that is beyond our strength,
Like a fake product from China.
And we will leave the portrait for the organs in the apartment.
There are bags, there is no money in the bags.

Verse Two: Caspian Cargo
There is no money, but we are doing the best we can.
Our focus group always has ideas.
And in theory, every day is a harvest day for us.
We're threatening to harvest our crops, bitch.

We don't need any non-local people here.
We inflict many grievous bodily upon him.
And what do you say here - fucking in porridge, count up.
We do not forgive our debtors, Amen.

Optics pointed
Somewhere in the head, where the gray hair.
The stubble will hide my scars.
Prayer in the temple, protect us.

In type in Alaska bullets fly.
Feathers fly out of a type in Alaska.
This is already our song and dance ensemble, grandpa.
And now I am his artistic director.

Fuck our prison?
We have a fog in our heads.
I don't give a fuck who the lieutenant is.
I don't give a fuck who the captain is.

I'm a life prisoner
In sensitive places.
They tried to fix me
But I didn't get better here.

Well, fuck us gray-haired?
This is our last home.
There are scars and marks on the back,
Behind the orphanage.

Let's show the young
To remember later
How fucking throws life on concrete
Fucking on concrete.

Chorus: [x4]
Bullets in the clip.
Don't whine
It does not hurt.