Текст песни Фёдоров Олег - Душевнобольная песня

You can get out of here through the window,
Slowly run through the snowdrifts
Overcoming “maybe” and “but”,
Not believing other people's expired paths.

Here the white walls are dirtier than bathrobes
Doctors personal, drivers of fate
What a pity that impotence is not cured by obscenities
And tomorrow will be today's copy.

In tablets, of course, in the grimaces of a neighbor
He is a thief at the cross, forgiven by mission.
I think I have no time to be before dinner,
I am a vegetable, I am a zombie from their therapy.

Here black is white drawn by light
The timpani rumble and violins are sawed,
A cigarette flies in my face
Under the tango "Madness" by Alfred Schnittke.