Description
Loud, with the crunch of nail polish and confidence you could spread on bread. This isn't about tenderness - it's about power over your own vibe. Every line seems to snap its fingers in time and wink at the mirror: “Well, baby, who's the original here?” The air smells of club smoke, gloss glistens on the lips, and inside there is a sweet mixture of audacity and desire. This is the soundtrack for those who dance while the rest discuss “what is proper.” When the beat slows down, only one thing remains - that feeling when you remember someone “in the camisole” and smile, because even your thoughts here are autotuned.
Lyrics and translation
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