| Vaska Krivoy killed three fishermen
|
| Sharpened pin trim
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| Turned out his pockets and scored with silver
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| Nearly four rubles
|
| I shook out my backpack and found in my backpack
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| Half a bottle of bad wine
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| Drank wine and fell asleep on the sand
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| The river wave turned red
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| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere
|
| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere
|
| Vaska Krivoy was tied up in a dream
|
| And sent to the city for trial
|
| It's hot now for the judges, they are not hiding
|
| They drink cold kvass in glasses,
|
| And above them the coat of arms infested with flies
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| A terrible coat of arms made of cast lead,
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| And on it is a sickle drenched in the blood of a plowman
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| And the hammer in the blacksmith's blood
|
| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere
|
| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere
|
| Vaska the Crooked, waking up at dawn
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| Without refueling lead to the corridor
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| Deaf corridor and chipped brick
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| And the floor is tiled
|
| Mother of God fought at the entrance to the prison
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| About the iron door with your head,
|
| But from the tile Vaska's blood
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| Washed off the convoy with water from the hoses
|
| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere
|
| These rivers flow to nowhere
|
| They flow without going anywhere |