Текст песни Иван Воробей - Поэт

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I'm probably dead. Condition - hunger.
Doomed breathe. Deru air from the pharynx.
I feel sick that someone thinks that I should
Decide how much today I breathe position.

Gutting to pieces. By tearing shreds,
You took everything yourself, but a month later rot.
At the corners of understanding spring undress without looking
You're out of the crowd, who played for the floss.

They are like a flock. But you brought with a smile.
Your smile between his legs more profitable.
Delhi itself into hundreds. body sale.
Blockhead had you in his throat, but in fact

Deeper shoving, he tore your smile.
Walls was disgusting. Her hands are cool.
Bed absorbed every last groan.
He does not hear hertz. Her heart is deaf.

You did not see the eyes of children, doomed to this:
My day - three new verses.
Three different story. Her day - three new customers.
Looking for a piece of money to a young body.

Short skirt and in the heat, and minus 20,
Passes by will be in the minds of eat in.
Units, looked into his eyes, see
What heart deaf, but has not yet cooled down.

All that breathed - was long ago ugleksislym.
No longer lines, attempts to stamp "on the dips".
Drunk with inspiration. Her eyes imprinted scars.
I need to breathe. And the inspiration - it is not necessary.

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