Войны вкуса текст песни
Обновлено: 19.09.2024
Припев (x2):
Звук согреет слабота домой накроет.
И на кой нам потери?
Это бой до потери пульса.
Это вольные войны вкуса.
Припев (x4):
Звук согреет слабота домой накроет.
И на кой нам потери?
Это бой до потери пульса.
Это вольные войны вкуса. First Verse:
There is sound, the plug is dull.
I hide my thoughts under a new plus.
And no matter how you did not take the ace.
Then my brother, this is my bush.
So I stub, in a manner.
This flow will be the first to leave, we are in faith.
Tobacco from the Faith, more than enough.
Flies we disperse rastafaray.
Tuk-tuk, what's cool here?
On a circle count, twist the circle.
No dolls are octopus, but hundreds of bitches.
Tooth on tooth, in forehead tooth.
So my friend can decide my sound.
And it would have measured the walls of the tags.
I'm in my dirty sauce.
There is a brother on the back, a bumba.
Dug a tooth, labyrinths of Hood.
Pull me, just believe in me.
Then the glasses are empty, nights, weekdays.
I'm lost in my own entrance.
Maps on Google!
It is necessary to loiter the one who is even more so.
In time it burns, like - so little.
Close knew, all of steel.
I believe to the grave, diggies trawl.
Brother, labyrinths exist in everyone.
Oh, labyrinths exist in everyone.
Chorus (x2):
The sound will warm the weakness home will cover.
And why should we lose?
This is a fight before losing your pulse.
This is a free war of taste.
Second Verse:
Silent truth, embarrassing to file.
Here I go in search.
I change bitter tears sometimes to nadir.
Trenches beckon, depth calls. Still would!
The lines were flickering.
Are you ready to trade this world for me?
Keds are ready to pick yours.
After that, again I stand at the door of the house.
Time, like a coma, in the throat is lumpy.
Burns quickly, just as the straw burns.
At the weight of Sam Aleykum.
My muse, shore up your parish.
With you, I'm an invincible musician.
We have sunk into the sunset.
Years took away their, but I'll take a hundred times more, bracho.
Do not bother.
In a minor, my essence is simple.
We would, we would, we would have to return these places.
Where are the souls, rasta? Athabas,
Wali on the bass, hold the track.
And style, ma, will collect.
Gaza add, and we support, brazil!
Chorus (x4):
The sound will warm the weakness home will cover.
And why should we lose?
This is a fight before losing your pulse.
This is a free war of taste.
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