Sokół - Nic

The streets are empty like a fat kielnia
The internet is clogged because everyone is checking likes
Here misfits in June are shaking for the holidays
Monkeys are being auctioned under the buns from Żabka
I don't know what suits the girls from the estate better
Moaning on the couch or slamming in the hallway?
He kicked the calendar, Waldek aka Patelnia
Above the grave, only girls are crying in rows
At the wake, his brother overheated on pills
Dressed in a slick suit and red Puma Ferrari kicks
He was never a man of many talents
But he could always pull fools, you get it?
Here cars roll to the car wash
Guys scrubbing in them along the line
Ice cream is made in them, girls like Carpigiani
Mothers sit on the bench in the gate because it's raining
Daughters on their boyfriends
Who wiped their fingerprints on the pads like crazy

Do nothing
Say nothing
Think nothing
Feel nothing
Nothing, what?
Nothing, nothing, nothing

She carried the priest's rent through the park, babinka
For Holy Mass for the intentions of Marcinek
As she fed the pigeons, she lost her wallet
There will be no grace of God, Marcin will sit longer
Eliza's son scratched "dick" on the police car with a nail
And his father went out the window from the fifth floor
Hands out of pockets, shouting and jotting them down in the frost
"The dog has hands," they heard from a blind man, don't think

Do nothing
Say nothing
Think nothing
Feel nothing
Nothing, what?
Nothing, nothing, nothing

Iwonka works in the office at Mordor
She has a hybrid Prius and practices yoga on the balcony
Her lamus f*cked off on a motorcycle
She smells of possibility as I walk past her
Everything changes in my neighborhood
Even the old thief wanted to be a damn youtuber
Fate does not fulfill everyone's dreams
Because he burned himself on the camera like f*cked up the camera

Do nothing
Say nothing
Think nothing
Feel nothing
Nothing, what?
Nothing, nothing, nothing

Mongoł stole a bike in the neighborhood next door last season
It works here a bit like a local, fast Glovo
Everyone has a blue card at home, knows the menu
Three Żubry, a quarter of rye, and two shots
In the neighborhood they call me a diplomat
I negotiated with thick scoundrels in many tight spots
I spit well, it's not a trick
I would casually f*uck up Kaczyński's grandson here

Do nothing
Say nothing
Think nothing
Feel nothing
Nothing, what?
Nothing, nothing, nothing

Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing