| I look at the floor, at a puddle of saliva
|
| Sacred gift, it is cleaner than a leaf
|
| Confused ambition, between these days
|
| And what do I see there? |
| and who has become now?
|
| Army temper - oral environment
|
| Nervous steam and veins on the forehead
|
| Nonsense. |
| There was a committee
|
| Earned by breaking painfully tied hands
|
| Launched the game. |
| Welcome to the club,
|
| But remember, you have to be more inconspicuous
|
| Beliefs lie, contradict them with a fool
|
| Witches don't even dare
|
| They hung up the broom. |
| They say right now we don't need a corpse
|
| Happiness, blessings and lubricate the loops
|
| Block. |
| And blew off the appetite bravado on the whistle
|
| Waiting for puddles of death
|
| Where education is a collective image
|
| Can't work out in the arsenal
|
| Here is a mosaic, parents are trying to hunch over,
|
| And only by ensuring not to avoid a bruise
|
| On the body, as well as the soul, the race does not settle down
|
| With the same forgotten wanderers of the bottom
|
| Under the windows at the crossroads, my compass
|
| From sulfur, burning - turn into a radar
|
| I saw my childhood, yes, somehow I was not impressed
|
| A mixture of dictation with the usual kilo of bottles
|
| To the receiver, change for vodka, beer -
|
| Cycle, at the helm of the authors of the notes of the shops
|
| Everything is apparently not beautiful - but we are children of ebony
|
| This is art, isn't it?
|
| Ruin, bad taste, background of shadows
|
| Flip boarding on sentiment
|
| Start with pathos
|
| End up bottom
|
| Instead of nuclear August
|
| Rugs under the window
|
| A very disdainful pause
|
| Was, self-tuning
|
| From deafening groans
|
| Wrap bitter faust op
|
| Our whole life is a catalog of years, the separation of flies from cutlets and drunken delirium
|
| Dialogues roll into a stupid thread - collect, like Lego, a pamphlet by letter
|
| Someone ordered potpourri in a cauldron? |
| Wait, Charon - we'll smoke here in the darkness for now
|
| Then I’ll say hello to daddy there, because this fool didn’t order me to rush
|
| It's too late to shed when there are air-to-ground explosions near the Kremlin, it will just shoot
|
| Sports or a bruise, fuck the age of the family, this is the duty of the Russians - shut up, pig
|
| We need to move forward past the scaffold, in search of happiness - no photo, no treasure
|
| In a couple of words, this is a true plot - in nuclear August, snow attacked
|
| We are hostages of papers, and time is tick-tock, on the screens of the Witcher or webcam, right?
|
| The game of lowering the degree: in it we are all in wheelchairs in a world without ramps
|
| Yes, we are the children of ebony - we drank port wine and did not notice the nut shade in the wine
|
| In the world of shadows, millions of threads, like in a spindle, so poisonous are the minutes in the shroud of days.
|
| In the cell alone, stupidly locked in the dust - this is my demon inside I forgot the way home
|
| Everyone needs a couple in the pasture, so we walk from the bar to the cemetery
|
| Red fabric - touched the wine glass. |
| Siege in progress, where's the trebuchet?
|
| We don't give a damn about your dinner party: every new day is my Shawshank
|
| Start with pathos
|
| End up bottom
|
| Instead of nuclear August
|
| Rugs under the window
|
| A very disdainful pause
|
| Was, self-tuning
|
| From deafening groans
|
| Wrap bitter faust op |