Окно в Париж - Oxxxymiron

★ Window to Paris ★

★ Verse ★
How Astana looked so much better under
Nur-Sultan, by the way, props in the description
“Blessed are the poor in spirit,” that's what scripture teaches us
Putin wears Celine, Lukashenko wears Margiel's
Bending my line, Griselda, from the first mixtape
Kleptomaniacs all sound like poor man's Skriptonite
Conveyor belts success: “You don't mess around, it's vibe...”, uh-huh
No, you just read fucking wibbly-wobbly
I'm a boom-bap Yiddish, African-American klezmer
Hella money maker, master of ceremonies
Surr trucker, absurd cab driver
Esperanto and Surjik sign language interpreter
Snow on the Elysian Fields (Voilà)
The summary speaks for itself (Oula-la-la!)
My story will be scribbled by Dropdead
My conscience is Danya Porn Rap, eh
Here's the storyteller, Norman Mailer, Corey Taylor
Legend of Nevsky Prospect, but not Weller
Fuckin' Freken Bock, 'cause he's got a propeller behind him
Plus I bent silver with one look like Uri Geller
Orgies in hotels, I got Helter Skelter's blood on me
Young Werther flew off into space like Squirrel, Arrow
The line, the new school's change of shifts - trenkai, trenkai
For me the maestro is Skepta, you're a meter and a cap
Le Courvoisier, your artist friend is in the ground
Le Corbusier, my text is brutalism
A cozy pier, Chilean sea bass meat
Get the rest of your shit and get the fuck out of here
The hydroplane scratches noisily on the river surface
Sex toys in my hand luggage
The occult will ruin me, the concubines fuck the succubi
I'm more blasphemous than a gargoyle's intercourse with an abbot
Your flavor is platinum
Mine is spider web antique patina
So, how are we gonna fuck you?
Your mom's got a new Benz
Money for maintenance and gas
How come? Easy: your grandmother has Onlyfans
I got three million on me, even though I look like a bum
It's an ultra-thin drip, you wouldn't understand
You're head to toe in obvious brands, like an asshole
I'm wearing a vintage beret taken off a murdered clochard
Antiques, Oscar Wilde and Huysmans
Victorian decadence is my aphrodisiac:
Cabarets and variety shows, carriage singers, liberte
The throne is empty, the Moors are in Paris
According to Babel I'm a Jew and a half
I used to coucher avec moi only if ménage à trois
Mademoiselle turns her eyes away - you dreamt of me
It's time for your young men to retire without a SNILS
Blossoming: I've been underground for a long time
My value grows with age, it's good wine
In Miro Veritas, we're timeless
Danny is my Daniel Lee
Could relaunch an old brand, Bottega Veneta
Smoke up, Parnassus is empty, Pegasus is down
The artist is always a narcissist and a Nazi
Abuse of self and loved ones is the price of a poem
Maybe there's another way, but this is it for now
Ha, I'm the son of a foundry bridge
# Killed classicism, that aesthetic is simple #
Baby doesn't like my city for a reason:
On the crosses, the shadow of two convicts and a dead Christ
Moscow, you're a booty call for Themis
Blindfold yourself, you're a boutique squad
Court status won't save you
Don't flick your face
They're already ringing the intercom and the star is waiting for the bars
Fuagra: you're busy fighting the regime
The fig in your pocket is already a dried fig
And the water is thick above us: Dom Pérignon
From the banks to the Patriarch's Ponds