Why do I do it, people? Does someone know it either? What do you all see here? Who just looks too stupid? – Me. How much I can I do it. Whacked and like doctor sew it. Clubbed and I never knew it. Why did I do it? Why did I take my pen, Then why did I open pad? Why did I close me eyes And why did I write first rhyme? Why was it too stupid, But why did it turn to line? Why didn’t you read it, So why did I think I’m high? Cuz I am – I fly high in sky. ‘Rhymes’ is my own empire. I am king when I can write. I feel all rhymes are mine – All rhymes in this fucked-up world. It all looks like I found door And door’s opened up to words. Therefore, there are no more words. I go thru newfound door, Support what I said before, Afford what I ever wanted, Form something like a fort I try to defend from y’all, Relying upon all my thoughts, And fight all I must fight for, Revived and devoted for the rhyme. La-la-la-la-la-la-la…. Why do I write my rhymes? La-la-la-la-la-la-la…. Why do I write my rhymes? Here’s female singer coo-coo ca-ca. It’s her song full of jaga-jaga, Another song where’s musi-pusis. Both sounds like her fucker fuck her… sorry. Why did I do it, mean, why did I write it? I’ve got friend, I mean, my friend Is grunge singer, Kurt Cobain’s heir. You could hear him at Moscow In the R-club. Did you hear him? His own group’s called “Watershed”. He plays guitar, he sings his songs, He writes his texts on English language As I do, but are we wrong? I’m like rapper; he is rocker. He says, “A-a-a-a-a”, me – wacka-wacka. He can do what he set himself for – I’m motherfucker, Lucky Beggar. It’s for people everywhere, No matter wherever you are – Let’s listen this my fucking lines About how I behaved so far And how I’m tired of all that ‘shows’ On my TV screen, what a mole; If I had a bit more time I’d say what I think of em all. Time I’ve got, I used to say I hate it, much enough to spew it. I said things I used to fear to say And dunno why did I do it. La-la-la-la-la-la-la…. Why do I write my rhymes? La-la-la-la-la-la-la…. Why do I write my rhymes? I dunno why I wrote these senseless lines, but it ain’t time to sorrow. Rapping verses in da public is some kind of ancient horror. Arms are shaking, voice’s mumbling; feel like there’s no sense in poem. People may say, “What a fuck”, but my verses are not for em. This way I may hear, “if it ain’t for us, then shut up and go out”. Want me lying down the bottom, goggling back up at crowd Laughing, whistling, louding, scolding and sending me away for now, But I don’t give a thing if this crowd’s gonna fuck me out. If they don’t like me, let’s try finding those, who like me just a bit more. As for crowd that behind me, still hissing - fuck you, like a bitch whore. I go further, there’s no spare place at old page – I turn it over. All I wrote there’s upside down – wrote just not what I thought of; I was stupid, so I set up new creed - not stay, but go forward. Making every next verse better - that’s my goal I’m going toward. I take pen, I open pad, I close my eyes, I write new poem. Y’all ask you, “Why do I do it?” There is nothing hard - I’m poet.