Пушкин репрезентирует

I’m Pushkin in the hood, cold venom in my veins, 
Black Russian soldier, breakin’ chains, bringin’ pain, 
From the shadows of the block, I’m the nightmare you fear, 
Words like bullets, blastin’ through your atmosphere. 

Cold streets like Siberia but the war’s right here, 
Haters talk loud, I make ’em disappear, 
No mercy in my flow, it’s a lyrical attack, 
Pushkin from the cold turned the hood to my track. 

Still armed with a pen, like a gun to your dome, 
Spittin' fire so raw, I’m claimin' my throne, 
From domes to blocks, no difference in the fight, 
Black Russian king with that hood’s dark bite. 

Corruption and the cops, I’m revoltin’ nonstop, 
Pushkin’s ghost in the game, make the fake heads drop, 
Cold blood with the words, I'm ruthless on these beats, 
No surrender, no peace — just survival in heat. 

I’m the storm in the street, the voice of the cursed, 
Black Russian rhymer, bring the lyrical worst, 
Pushin’ past limits, French cuffs can’t hold tight, 
Still savage, still fierce, still bringin’ the fight.