Вапе

I love vape, hoverboards, and my Wins cap, My tracks on itunes, Queens is my map. I’d hang in Atlanta, but back in my flat, Just my uncle jerks off with a selfie-stick—scratch that. So— I love vape, hoverboards, and my Wins cap, My tracks on itunes, Queens is my map. I’d hang in Atlanta, but back in my flat, Just my uncle jerks off with a selfie-stick—scratch that. Love Bonsai, Fara, Juba—but my dad don’t get the vibe, In the Deck they spin Bootus or Garik Sukachev—tribe. All day long, like a Dandy from Paris, straight hype, My brother screamin’ bloody murder—I killed kin for the vape type. I’d quit cigs, for real, but you can’t fry a blunt on a coil, I’m on the hype, like Timati back in the soil. My crew’s all Pokémons, my chick’s a Pidgeot, After school we ride—two hoverboards, that’s the lot. Down Broadway like butter, rollin’ to a concert—Zemfira’s sound, Sharp brims on our heads like axe blades on the ground. I’m rich like Sarkisov—sarcoma, cats, and cash, My spliff so huge it’s on Dublygis’ stash. We catch pucks like Fetisov—I mixed a strawberry blend, This fat joe now they call "Gleb Strawberry," my friend. He’s packed like my Dms—spit it out, babe, don’t be rude, On my hoverboard, gold spinners spin, You’re not you when hungry—this ain’t Snickers, bud. Sneakerhead—Jordans, Louis, Fines, Prada, Your hoes know my name, they shine like Farah’s album, nada. They know my legend—like 8 Mile, I’m the king, I’m fashion flesh, banana juice—named, bling. You went out to catch Pokémon, but caught a fish instead, Look how I filled your bitch’s tank—like Master Luke, widespread— Hell knows what that means, but it sounds so boujee. Throw it on thrash, on Witch-rave, spin the coil, I roll on mech-mods, trollin’ haters in the net, Your sick V-cap hides half your face—so wet. Too bad only lips are shown—but I changed her cotton, yet. I love vape, hoverboards, and my Wins cap, My tracks on itunes, Queens is my map. I’d hang in Atlanta, but back in my flat, Just my uncle jerks off with a selfie-stick—scratch that. So— I love vape, hoverboards, and my Wins cap, My tracks on itunes, Queens is my map. I’d hang in Atlanta, but back in my flat, Just my uncle jerks off with a selfie-stick—scratch that. I dripped some Russian juice and start a new verse, Pink shades on my face—like I’m not Grigory Leps, curse. Vodka shot on the table, black rye bread on the side, I’ll write how life in Russia sucks—how it’s suicide. I’m where it’s always hell—Sodom, Gomorrah, Gulag trips, You think you can build shit here? You’re dumb—loose lips. On Main Square, a ziggurat—wannabe Mubarak, And only repressive parades—oh shit, what a shock! But truth is—everyone’s dumb, you can’t think straight, Here a lib fights commies, sofa-patriots debate. But it’s all shades of crap—I don’t care, why bother? I flip the bird to all of you—lik