| insomnia, homer and ned flanders
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| solving the simplest question, quarreled
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| I felt good when we broke up
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| but everything broke in my hands, I have a lot of passion
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| and I thought we would be together until old age
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| and I consoled myself, all this is temporary
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| even smoked at work during lunch break
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| you make peace and she will get pregnant from you
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| from St. Petersburg to Moscow and savings will appear
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| healthy teeth, and maybe get married
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| common things, happily ever after, like in a fairy tale
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| and your novel will be translated into Spanish
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| you will go to Europe, visa, travel all hell over the airport, like adults, come back
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| go for a bite to eat at the Tanuki restaurant
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| and with bewilderment remember this short separation,
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| in the meantime, I want you all to die, bitches
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| unable to connect to network on laptop
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| every day I swallow a sword, masturbate, erasing shnyag into blood
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| tearing my ass on toilet paper, okay
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| I go down the stairs, I leave the front door
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| I drank all Sunday, not just Saturday
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| late for work, the tram rides for a long time, fucking
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| don't fall whores in singed dolci and gabana
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| suffer and brush your teeth, suffer in a cramped elevator
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| suffer like a fool Speransky, unbuttoning your bra
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| I'm just an ant in an empty big city
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| metro stop avtovo I got up and woke up
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| don't come to me on the street, I'm beautiful
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| I'm unhappy, unarmed, but damn dangerous
|
| who am I in the metropolis? |
| who are you? |
| Drunk Krusty the Clown
|
| how to sleep through the approach of old age and lack of passion?
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| when the sun died, I woke up and went out
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| a man was lying in the mud, looking like a dusty TV
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| as if he fell from the roof, and silently quietly crashed
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| I would like to eat it for breakfast along with glasses
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| dusty evening morning suffocates in an ashtray
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| wash a blanket hide from daylight
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| lynch comes in a dream says my name is david,
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| and you, along with the last tram, will disappear
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| what to say to a stranger, how to turn your head,
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| when they breathe rotten pus into your ear in the subway
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| stories break off in someone else's fetid breath
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| an ashtray of morning sticks out of each larynx
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| I see you instead of all the tickets to the cinema and clubs
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| I see your eyes trampled in the city puddles
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| I turn the corner and wait to be strangled with a knife
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| with the newspaper "work" under my arm I'm always bored
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| dying is not interesting, crawling in spitting and postcards
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| handed out on the corner by an elderly Mr.
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| the next life will be beautiful and clean
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| become something that does not stink, such as plant food
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| see you from the window for vegetarians
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| wait for the post-hardcore lover to deal with me
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| or wither in the evening, dying without photosynthesis
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| a passionate death awaits me from lack of sun
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| I fell asleep in the subway woke up in the minibus
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| collecting possible deaths every minute
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| someday I will die and nothing will happen around
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| in the morgue they pay two hundred rubles for each washed corpse
|
| don't come to me on the street, I'm beautiful
|
| I'm unhappy, unarmed, but damn dangerous
|
| who am I in the metropolis? |
| who are you? |
| Drunk Krusty the Clown
|
| how to sleep through the approach of old age and lack of passion? |