Time pours drop by drop in Belokamennaya, and behind the squirrels
|
The eye is not a stone at all, a figure in the camera lenses
|
I move in jerks, for the time being piquantly hinting
|
That there are no warm feelings for those who often flicker on the box
|
Three - it's already getting dark, winter lights a lantern
|
On the porch, hurry home - today is the semi-final
|
The jaw aches quietly, and a black eye turns blue under the eye
|
Yeah, nothing, it's usually quiet on Thursdays
|
Sale in Puma and Nike stores, price
|
Reduced what the pin-up posters are screaming about
|
If he hadn't kicked the bastard, he would have bought us
|
Something, I'm sliding on the ice, towards the drunken lieutenant
|
New Year is coming soon and even rubbish is not against pouring
|
There are balls, stuck on that muzlo that I filled in the player
|
It's already snowing, sad disabled bum
|
The roar from firecrackers is like a pump-action firing under the ear
|
My contented look is successfully inscribed in all the fuss
|
Shops, light bulbs, balls, I'm dialing kent
|
Congratulations on the upcoming, the tower echoes the beat
|
And I'm going here full of hopes and New Year's thoughts
|
The Thor Steinar jacket is also insanely fashionable
|
Today is my day - noticeable by the shining muzzle
|
I am satisfied, full, dressed, shod, there is a stash in the chest of drawers
|
The holiday is on the nose, and the whole evening is free today
|
Be ready a cheerful rogue, a dream is far away like Pluto
|
Annoying drunken plankton - they should be whipped with a rod
|
Inspired by the beat and heels would score hits
|
All you need is tea and boiling water, everything is for later
|
I continue after the comma, the muse is like a lighthouse
|
Someone pulls through a pipeton - okay, at least not a button accordion
|
The snow-covered distance beckons us - I'm in love with those lands
|
May or November - a swarm of snowflakes like a dance of naiads
|
I don't like trochaic or iambic, it's just like a tribute
|
Respect for the Motherland, words fly into the white distance
|
Always favorite, thick blanket and food are waiting at home
|
The soul is cozy and warm in spite of all the cold |