In the last century, rolling five to fifty,
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at the opening of the fountain I smoked a joint,
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voices wheezed from the speakers into the sky,
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Kai Metov, Apina, Buynov - fierce pop.
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Moms are dressed up, fathers are freshly shaved,
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children with ice cream - son, wipe your cheeks, you
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do not go into the water - it's too late, at least squeeze you out,
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Thank God it's not April, but May.
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Girl - Kenzo, boy - Wang Meng Show,
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she has a ring in her nose, he has a fresh seam,
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in the player Zemfira, and in the radio tape recorder Kuchin,
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A whole life ahead - our lucky chance.
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It shook me, here I am, here again,
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No, I didn't guess, I'm sober today.
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And in that fountain there are cigarette butts and coins,
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and the kids vomited on May.
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So, youth, farewell, the fountain has dried up,
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there will be grandmas, come, let's bulge.
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I bought food in a cafe, gave it to homeless dogs,
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crumbled bread crumbs for rock doves.
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You fly to the address, sit on the windowsill,
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wait until her husband leaves the colonel,
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knock with the cipher that I knocked on the door,
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she will know and understand - I missed you.
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We'll meet you at the fountain
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the pain will wash away with drops of water,
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where the flowers no longer wither,
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we seem to be drunk in the morning. |
After all, we
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meet you at the fountain
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the pain will wash away with drops of water,
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where the flowers no longer wither,
|
we seem to be drunk in the morning. |
After all, we
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meet you at the fountain
|
the pain will wash away with drops of water,
|
where the flowers no longer wither,
|
we seem to be drunk in the morning. |
After all, we
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meet you at the fountain... |