Sailed gray weekdays with black stripes
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I remember how you braided your hair in the morning
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A bright spot on the cloth of my sad life
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You were always the most delicious
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Aces are falling - hit, since such is fate
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Drink your flask to the bottom, don't be sorry
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Tomorrow again in battle, brother
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Write a letter for that guy, okay?
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Guard my love Lord
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She is cool there, but here
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Where is the bullet per square meter
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She's hotter than the sun, she baked in July
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Louder than the ringing, the bell, my pain
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War board game, cards again
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Pretty so
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Let's go farta, damn it, yes, to the guitar
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The incentives have cooled down, that's all
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I am at least here until morning
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All the same guys
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All the same drunken faces, warriors
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I will return to the barracks
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Burn another page
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From Prague to Berlin, then Africa
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Sahara fried the back, paprika taste of blood
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Don't reproach me for my weaknesses
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Row every step away from joy
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I know you would like to give birth to my son,
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But completely different dreams cooled the wet back
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And instead of tango, my feet wash the waters of the Ganges
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Deep, deep
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I saw bullets that bowed their heads to the ground
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I know the word that can divide the world equally
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Choose a side, choose a side
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Pick a side...
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My thoughts kill, my hands maim
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Even on the battlefield after the battle, lying wounded, I will pray
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About meeting you
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The smell of the sea, beautiful shoulders, languid speeches
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Love on red, honor on black
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A submissive soul will reread home beckoning
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She squeezed her wrist with thin fingers
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And the piano keys gave the sounds of happiness
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They circled like moths over the light of life
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Their beating hearts echoed in sync
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There were only two of them in the whole world,
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But the viscous time dripped and gave no rest
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Desire to see white flags on the battlefield
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He stands somewhere on the half way to Kilimanjaro
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In the tropics I remembered her and evenings on Patrick
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In dreams, the heat gave rise to a thirst for drink
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In dreams, the meeting gave rise to a thirst to live
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He could kill himself if he didn't find out about the miracle
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He could have killed himself if he hadn't found out about the child
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That somewhere there is not in Moscow already, in Kaliningrad
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In Gradskaya 28, an old obstetrician with gray hair
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I cut the umbilical cord to the baby, putting him on the sheets
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It's too late to pray to the Lord
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begging in rainy autumn
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Sitting on Vagankovsky, rubbing whiskey, hitting the ground with tears
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Hitting the ground with tears, hitting the ground with tears
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Tears hitting the ground
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Once again we ask...
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I know you would like to give birth to my son,
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But completely different dreams cooled the wet back
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And instead of tango, my feet wash the waters of the Ganges
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Deep, deep
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I saw bullets that bowed their heads to the ground
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I know the word that can divide the world equally
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Choose a side, choose a side
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Pick a side... |