Lyrics ТГК - Свободный Стиль

Vibe:
We emerge from the darkness
Where there are centuries-old ice,
White smoke pours out thickly.
My clan is ninja mercenaries,
No receivers
They don't take this wave.
My boys are for free style,
Sons and fathers
No DJ in this mix can make ends meet.
We are not here to convey a message,
And quickly draw your monastery,
Yes, so that it overlooks the bridges.
The clock is ticking, the glare from the scythe falls on it,
Space became available and new residents moved in.
Shch-Ts, transmit frequency coordinates,
Two-zero-one-three TC MC.
I am for beautiful handwriting, for a green forest,
Twice for Chelyabinsk and for a silver Mercedes,
For there to be more warm places in the Arctic Circle,
After all, our people are there and here too.

Here's our version of the track of the year,
After Chelyaba there is gold, we go deep into the water.
What's the weather like in rap right now?
What's fashionable there?
Louis Vuitton or Adidas discount?
With show-off, impromptu
My gang is hopping on your speakers.
The blanks with the THC hieroglyph reached out to the hands,
The system works seven days a week while we are on vacation.
We appear in the form of a white cloud,
Low frequencies extend far beyond the room.
From the darkness, streams of smoke dance on the walls,
At the end, draw a bold comma.

Jamal:
The city is gloomy, the capes are diamond-shaped,
Thunder interrupts half-asleep.
We shout for rap with thousands,
People arrive from all directions
Hello, a flock of crows is circling over the yard,
A man with an ax goes about his business,
Watches with interest and morbid
Under the cover of the crowns and under the crimson sunset,
With fucking, shadows on walls and fences.
On the microphones is a Chelyabinsk school with a hip-hop twist.
I want you to know
A good start to the day, the speakers are blasting with us,
Play hormone, hydroponic check,
I inhale greedily according to all the canons of the genre
On the balcony of a house, or between carriages,
Calm, no bullshit, no crime, smooth,
Mouzon with a telephone,
By terminals, and by pyrons,
For remote regions,
Who should we vote for?
So that our future is not shitty.
Well, what about our million-dollar sales?
Or should I just eat burnt Big Bon?
For my French pardon,
You, brother, remain a layer cake
In a densely populated area.
While still green
Don't get salty
Half-bent, half-asleep deer
Ghost, watch your time.

Ingush (Mikha):
This story takes its roots from the sidelines,
Where one day an opera fell wet,
Where the fender of the car is sealed with tape,
Where the guy in the top ten thought that he would definitely slip through,
Where dinner is at lunch, and where the cop eats meth,
Where the tramp takes a breath and stirs up coins,
I'm straight from the center of this luscious city
Here your cheap show-off will not be valued dearly.
Karaganda is not Vologda, I eat at home,
So that you, my friend, can check out how the thunder will sound.
From this Ol G Kush (??) a coma ensued,
How I get a kick out of this hydroponic,
Hey, boy, are you standing on the sidelines so modestly?
Pull up to our spot, because it is so huge!
Don't you have anything to say here? Take my word.
Don't die my spiritual foundation.
My Tolstoy is not familiar here in these parts,
And I didn’t quote Leo Tolstoy in your house.
I remembered a series of words from a large volume,
After all, what you believe in is very pompous.

Belly: Belly:
That coat, write it down already,
I haven’t studied Taekwondo, but
The sounds of the beats are just that for me.
I'm standing by micro, 3D glasses, then a coat,
The time has come to write it down.
I haven’t studied Taekwondo, but