| Ah, pyrokinesis.
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| Angels don't fly
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| Identity crisis, music is dead
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| I grab myself red-handed to slam
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| Forever your dirty, spoiled mouth
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| And with a garrote of roses with thorns he squeezes at the throat, so that he will definitely shut up
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| And then lock your muse forever from all operettas
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| Only my amulet is not your cross and frescoes
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| I flew out of paradise with a bang and, burning, I poured out everything vile
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| Together with absinthe into a glass and set it on fire, exclaiming
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| "Burn, I beg you, burn and burn in the ashes!"
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| Two years ago I was spiritually rich, but became completely poor
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| For some reason, trying to find yourself where normal people don't look,
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| But the train left, and it's scary that, apart from pain, nothing comes to our house
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| And like a storm, my room is chaos, and the light does not pass the blockade from the curtains
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| Garrote will tighten the neck, and the rose claws around the arteries to the roar of heaven
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| There is no time, and there are no hopes, and there are no intentions
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| I wanted to turn the whole world
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| But I only turned the cross over and spat
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| Wishing to choke in blood
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| While making a thin incision near the arteries
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| And I wanted to turn the whole world,
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| But I only turned the cross over and spat
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| Wishing to choke in blood
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| To my rose that makes a thin incision at the arteries (Pow)
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| Garrote will pull the neck
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| Pull off the garrote, pull off the garrote
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| Garrote will pull the neck
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| The bones of my rock, decomposed into notes
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| Garrote will pull the neck
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| Pull off the garrote, pull off the garrote
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| Garrote will pull the neck
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| The bones of my rock, decomposed into notes
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| Life is not noir. |
| I drink liquid uranium to the bottom for your health
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| Shout: "Hurrah!" |
| I, apparently, will soon go in circles of hell,
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| But there is no respite. |
| I'm choking, swallowing poison-soaked air
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| I don’t know if I’ll get in order after, but I continue to pretty force
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| This is rotten art. |
| I tirelessly push garbage to death
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| From my mouth scolding, and they will not let me to the doors of paradise
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| And everything that you, scum, lost, cannot be returned
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| And I have to exchange all my work for a bottle at once
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| Garrote with spikes will slide along the cervical regions
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| And only the smoke here will color the space and the room in a gray tint
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| I wanted to turn the whole world
|
| But I only turned the cross over and spat
|
| Wishing to choke in blood
|
| While making a thin incision near the arteries
|
| And I wanted to turn the whole world,
|
| But I only turned the cross over and spat
|
| Wishing to choke in blood
|
| To my rose that makes a thin incision at the arteries
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| Garrote will pull the neck
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| Pull off the garrote, pull off the garrote
|
| Garrote will pull the neck
|
| The bones of my rock, decomposed into notes
|
| Garrote will pull the neck
|
| Pull off the garrote, pull off the garrote
|
| Garrote will pull the neck
|
| The bones of my rock, decomposed into notes |