KURWA. (Not a Curse)

Intro
(cisza…)
Kuuuuurrrrrwa…
(werbel jak kroki, bas wchodzi ciężko)
Not a word.
A reflex.
Verse 1
KURWA! — teeth clenched, bone meets stone,
No thought, no pause, just flesh and groan.
Kuuurwa… — a face from a former life,
Dragged-up smile, old blood, old time.
Kurwa under breath when the deal goes bad,
Kurwa screamed raw when the night turns mad.
No grammar here, no polite design,
Meaning lives in the dirt, the breath, the spine.
Chorus
’Cause KURWA don’t mean one single thing,
Depends how deep you let it ring.
Crack the KUR — that’s rage and rust,
Let the wa fall long — that’s want and lust.
Verse 2
A hungry kurwa: “kuuuurwa… gimme more…”
Low and slow, like boots on a barroom floor.
A warning kurwa: “kurwa… don’t move…”
Half a whisper, nothing to prove.
Kurwa as silence when words are dead,
Kurwa as smoke between heart and head.
Ugly? Yeah.
But ugly’s true.
That’s how language bleeds when it’s talking to you.
Chorus
’Cause KURWA is pressure, heat, and weight,
Can’t clean it up, can’t translate.
Say it sharp — you cut the room,
Say it long — you fill the gloom.
Outro
(everything drops except bass)
Kuuuuurrrrrwa…
Say it wrong — fists get tight.
Say it right —
Everybody knows your night.