Текст песни Juno Dee - Отрифмую и умру

Commercial spitting of lousy money heads
Bole doesn't want to leave hip hop in his ears
I am more pleased to see the cultures alive
Rather than pushing a gently chanting layer of rhymes
In the basements, the selection of the sleeping and small
Without rooted heads, they also listen by hearing
The eye of the rough black roof of the spirit of brook
Speaking with support from a seated friend
The hand trembles new lines to the sheet
Hearing catches the humming of houseflies
The sight of wide rags of dirty bribes beckons me
Slutty little plastic or the smells of blobs
We're rascals Juno Dee chasing blacks
Hapa the master of the plate of black straights hears
We do not ride on mobiles, we do not get stuck in mobiles
We only beat to the beat without mediocre villas
Reactive reagent, EXPLOSIVE bit!
This is what you need to assemble a team!
Children of the streets of clever streets are dangerous for rudeness
Until the teeth fly out until the brain weeds out all the dullness
Without removing the poster behind the back Onyx is here!
Before losing my pulse, pushing everything out
Three-lane gritted teeth clenching fist
Outside the window frame beatings and fights
The past flowed without pale into the pantry
There I left new and let the wolves howl
Hey dude, have you smelled lave more than once
You, like a TP, not knowing the traffic rules, got into an accident (eee)
Phenomenal view of the city of the ant rabble
Blue leaves scars on each other for a sandwich
Self-preservation maine, natural selection
There is no way to get into the distance
Where there are clatter of cars and illegal dispute
With the knock of dial 12 it's time to start digging
From parks to streets of dirty pipes and lanterns
The beat is rubbing the hap of culture into someone who is not yet in it
In the shabby catacombs, the mafon is still tearing
There is also a ceiling inscribed in graffiti of culture
The talents of such places did not throw a ruble in our hat
The victim of shenanigans hands reach for the staff
I'm not a street bum I don't pack cans
I just rhyme the words, locking everything in jars
I don't need pizza I'm not a local gang surgeon
Throwing on the hood, slipping into the fences from the husky
I am scattered and lost in the mounds of lines dude
There are no shackles on my boneless tongue
Not the first bundle of sheets is already dirty
We don't care about the green box office, we need art
to muddy the ear, sweet and delicious
Old hip-hap plank, the place is probably here and I'll stop
I don’t need money, rhyme and die