Skinny & Crooked - Time is Ticking скачать в хорошем качестве

Skinny & Crooked - Time is Ticking

I see the numbers flicker—green lies, red graves, Currency converters in suits still taking slaves. They wave graphs like scripture, techno-clergy with charm, But every “record high” hides a record of harm. A market surge ain’t just stats—it’s a boot on the throat, Another block hollowed out, another life turned to note. They preach “free trade,” but the fee is your name, A ledger of sorrow where the ink is a flame. Ever played dominoes? One tap, the whole bends— Every bailout’s a muzzle, every crash, their friends. Venom spelled backward? That’s “money” in glass, You drink it, you smile, then you die on your ass. Wolves in the vaults, snakes in the boardroom choir, Counting your losses like they’re stacking a fire. Truth ain’t a product, but they price your pain, Then sell you “resistance” in a sponsored chain. Yo, it’s Skinny & Crooked—truth with teeth, Ripping through the curtain till it bleeds underneath. No gods, no masters—just fraud and fear, We say what they bury, make the buried appear. Skinny & Crooked—no halo, no cope, Just smoke in your lungs and a tightening rope. We’re not your idols—we’re the alarm that’s loud, Barefoot and furious, spitting facts in a crowd. American Pope got a throne made of screens, Blessed be the algorithms—washed in the obscene. He ain’t in Rome—he’s nested in thought, Preaching “freedom” like a product you already bought. “Long live the Pope,” they chant in a trance, But “love you long time” is just brand romance. It’s not a dog if it’s a God—flip the chain, Worship through pressure, then call it “humane.” Policy mannequins stitched in a two-color suit, Left-right’s a shuffle when they own the whole boot. White gloves, clean hands, but the supply line screams, They preach “progress” while they harvest the seams. No savior coming—just a PR parade, Polish up the shackles, sell you the grave. Yo, it’s Skinny & Crooked—rude truth, no trim, Chewing through the bedtime lies they fed to him. No gods, no masters—just codes and locks, We hit the weak points till the pretty thing drops. Skinny & Crooked—speak sharp, spit cold, Truth so brutal it can’t be re-sold. From ruins we rise—no gloss, no stars, Just scar-tissue scripture and gutter-born bars.