Do picia i mordobicia

The low bass wraps around like a worn jacket smells of sweat, beer, and old workouts; the voice throws lines like a glove into the ring; it feels like every chorus is a brick in the wall of friendship and petty hooliganism at the same time. The vocals are sometimes grimly encouraging, sometimes sharply cutting down on overconfidence, as if someone on a veranda after a fight is joking about past exploits and immediately raises a toast. The chorus works as a battle cry and as a chewing gum for those who are used to measuring the world by fists and glasses: it's drunk for fun and for settling scores, for those who stayed by your side, and the rest will be dealt with later. With a slight smirk, you can hear how training and the stage merge into a ring where laughter and grimaces coexist with pain, and this isn't pathos, but the warm, rough truth of the company.