| Chorus:
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| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
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| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
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| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
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| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke.
|
| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
|
| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
|
| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
|
| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke.
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| Again smoke for the hundredth time. |
| There is a window with a balcony.
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| I'm cold in my soul, but ringtones give out my heart.
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| Who are we, who are we? |
| I didn't find the answer.
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| Are we children of darkness or are we still children of light?
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| I will cover with a soft blanket, which I will call love.
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| So carefully and gently, with pain on the wounds with salt.
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| You sneak a smile when rap gives you a heel.
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| I know there is a bridge between us, but it is so shaky.
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| Again he went without a hat. |
| Winter, bitter cold.
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| When there is a hood - fuck what a hunger in the heart.
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| 0.5 - barley malt and unchanged Winston.
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| Again smoke through the window, two missed ones from relatives.
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| I flew, but low. |
| The soul flew higher.
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| But you - remember: it was heard - it was not heard.
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| When the Almighty describes to us there, he will write:
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| Thanks to those who listened. |
| Thanks to those who listen!
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| Chorus:
|
| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
|
| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
|
| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
|
| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke.
|
| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
|
| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
|
| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
|
| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke.
|
| Among the walls of vanilla one rotted so much
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| The plot of ordinary films, where they acquire wings.
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| Where all the roads are to your nose, crying, wow, fidget!
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| This is Great Russia. |
| Mom, don't be serious.
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| I do not presume to judge because you will not be judged
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| I'm an ordinary one, we're shooting that ordinary film.
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| The plot of the film: lonely among the walls,
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| And when a piece of ribbon is measured to us by someone.
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| When and by this someone, the case will be painted.
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| Perhaps it will be better when they shut up all the *ucheks
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| Let the clouds disperse, let's stretch our hands to the sun.
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| Yes, don't torture me anymore, give me colors, give me portions.
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| Give me portions of life, I will appreciate with a sigh.
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| Let me feel bad, the main thing is not to *wow!
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| Ahay or oah, the main thing is not to remain vague,
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| So that the path is good, and this day is not judgmental!
|
| Chorus:
|
| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
|
| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
|
| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
|
| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke.
|
| Under the notes of the street, and on a gray lonely morning -
|
| The sky is mother-of-pearl, yesterday's smell is prodigal.
|
| Again - you go clubbing, and I pluck from the flowerbed,
|
| Then, like this, I’ll light and blow the puffs of smoke. |