Текст песни Александр Башлачев - Мы льем свое больное семя

We pour their sick seeds
On the blade of the knife,
Which cuts us time
When is harvested.

Democratically all plants
The greatness of a simple herb.
And two blisters on his knees
Otherwise useful than my head!

I invite you to the barrier,
Tested their enemies -
For their beliefs and faith
Spit with ten steps.

Today handed over the cross -
And clever and stupid.
Poet died - Slave honor,
Cook in their own juices,

Strait of his sick seeds
On the blade of the knife,
Which cuts us time
When is harvested.

Come on chewing gum
Close up the holes of our wounds.
Breaking favorite records,
Utknemsya a blue screen.

Clowns, buffoons and Prophets
Today are & quot; & quot ;, Fender
To sing in hard rock
Intrigue barnyard.

And every evening in restaurants
They work and drink.
And look for the truth in the cups,
And this truth spit!

Spit his sick seeds
On the blade of the knife,
Which cuts us time
When is harvested.

We harnessed the pig into the carriage,
I usyadus coachman.
And twenty-two square meters
Union for the night breeze.

We shall open a vein hastily
Reliable razor & quot; & quot ;. Gillett
But instead of blood pouring beer
And only stain flooring.

Under the dim sun ripen sickly
Love the holy seed.
Love is like gonorrhea,
Since it is treated!

And we all pour their sick seeds
On the blade of the knife,
Which cuts us time
When is harvested.

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