Текст песни гср - Танго под танками

Bootlegger of the twenty-seventh apartments,
empty windbreaker on a hanger. It's damp. weave
in the limb webs. Today, Jesus is not listed
My alveolnuyu serum.
Today, Jesus is not my face Draw
grieving, toskuschim and high -
I - boy loses prayers
and abandoned the black windows.
Window frames are flying with a bang,
and changed to white plastic.
Hare Rama! Rama - in jacket
hiding in the mouth krodilovoy
knitted wool, after six
It decreases the rate of street life.
One can see the foliage rustles,
although,
not seen any DIG.
Sgin
theater
vlachaschih back
better - orgy and burlesque,
pockmarks, scars, and rough stimulus
whip
of
soft fishing Lesko.
And - you, the fox,
I believe that we have opened
painted the doors?
Steppenwolf,
silted
river
Prairie.
And - the tango under the tanks,
and - seditious heresy,
and heart seductive decadence;
I vyzvonit you pranker
from the bell tower
empty attics,
boarded-up funds.
Tickets run out.
In the hall - crowded.
Take off reseller-rook
the price tag.
There are only two
the horrific
seats
in the play -
on the stage.
And where
melancholic stuff
pokes his chest
in the eye -
pluck out of me
and fed winds
flashy piece of the world.
Read me
like myself, headlong,
jumping into the vestibule of the century -
and I, your lips lied,
poems will cripple.
My dear, my dear,
met,
Here - an alcoholic,
addict
Jesus,
it is something unbearable stabs
his veins
Beginning to talk.
And he dances
wet railing,
shouts "Pacifism - Burn outdated.!" -
It is a charming today
and wingless
my faith
Jew.
Lies month
as if it had tumbled down
and otlyubilo
yes hatred,
not bring -
This - my love - sank
to suit
to bitterness
to a handful.
But if
homeless and red
sop to throw -
she sits down to catch your fleas -
prozhennaya love, all vyzhennaya,
which managed, he saved.
And by these
Wonderland was overlooked,
go -
Shooting heels
and blouses -
Once, when I kick the bucket,
I will play - in the drawer of his poems.
Coachman my
Indian,
you read,
malyuem lips
Malyuta and demon -
I honor your name
M.,
desperately
I can not
without it.
The hopelessness - a lie.
Spoon exists.
Snow falls exactly
on a pile of eyelashes.
Interesting,
in which you - a big? -
or small
It puts a virus bloodsuckers.
And lethargic
ripe symphony
all collapses
and quotations,
will drag
background feeling on background
languages
and
arms
saxophones and mounts.
And if onslaught
and assault
poems
Take in hands
as a self-defense -
grass them,
Poetry - is strychnine
on human calculated.

That evening.
And bromine,
and vitriol.
And pour out
all in the next bout -
you just
look
burr on a star
blind
and a strange winter.

And melted wax
Soldier from a fairy tale,
and the match ends in a box.
The artist's life - it strokes and masks
raft on hand.

And the poet's life - tear off and throw it away,
and the poet seven Fridays, and no resurrection. -
Read my radioactive release
how to drape like drama and crisis in nevrostenika.

You see, my cardiogram,
full arrhythmia and artichoke -
Quo Vadis? At the bottom of the glass
you and your
interior,
from the intestines.
A little quieter
and I get - whispering
I softer pile
and near blizzard -
Afterword - Kiss
with flavor coffeeshop
and white
laundered bed.
But the curved spine
and rolled into a bundle,
and does not give a single step convoy lamps -
wrap up
In this
one of the skins
you crushed glass dust.
As wool
and barn,
do not get accustomed to the nipples -
leaked from the hand of the word,
my poetic slope.
And most of lace
and knitwear,
sweater and brighter, spring on the way.
Even
a bit scary
hand over
his lips
the scrap.

(C) rav