- Yes, wait, do not boil, we will bring to the grove
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Fuck it, hit it in the head, do you hear more mooing
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Well, football player, damn it, well, where is your scope?
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Fuck to the crunch - the truth is all in the legs
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- Well, why the fuck are you still not leaving, huh?
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- Hurry, there's his bitch, squealing all over the yard
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- Well, let's look everywhere already, don't ss
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- Yes, fucking, in short, forty, bitch, and hours
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Mom raised me, young, with a whip
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My brother did not sleep, and I walked with a broken fuck
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Quiet those village evenings
|
The blue ones trample me, and I wallow until the morning
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And at dawn he kicked the bubble, wandered home
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There's blood on the cigarette, leaning on the stockade
|
There is a kid in the yard, loitering around
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Come on, damn it, it's just boiling!
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Praying for a young man with demons on his shoulder
|
Rage will let go and be forgiven
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We pray for light in the midst of thick darkness
|
May your hand not be drawn to shed blood
|
We pray more quietly, at night in a whisper
|
While the mad knife amuses with the stomach,
|
And by noon we are already gathering the army with a word
|
And let the one we follow pray
|
"Someone from the Grotto!"
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- Quiet!
|
- Yes, no, they will not hear echoes
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Knock her down, fucker, and pick her up under her arms
|
Throw in the car
|
— Moved behind the garages
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Let's throw a couple of sticks right now, let's put it under the knives
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- They won't find us even during the day with fire
|
She no longer breathes, fuck her while we fuck
|
In the morning they will find it, we will extinguish it until the morning
|
Underwear, bloody lace
|
- Yes, and what the fuck, what whims are these
|
Gondon in a cassock teaches me from TV
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Cut me or forgive this or that nit
|
Have you, father, been on crowbars when there is no choice?
|
When treason presses, pussies move from the club
|
When you lie, whine, ask to leave your teeth
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To follow you, father, is a disastrous business
|
Yes, and on the Cunning half a cent they give for the Bible
|
Praying for a young man with demons on his shoulder
|
Rage will let go and be forgiven
|
We pray for light in the midst of thick darkness
|
May your hand not be drawn to shed blood
|
We pray more quietly, at night in a whisper
|
While the mad knife amuses with the stomach,
|
And by noon we are already gathering the army with a word
|
And let the one we follow pray
|
"Someone from the Grotto!" |