Текст песни Андрей Варламов - Таймырский этюд со сломанным вездеходом

The sun shines day and night
On top of the puff, bottom of the bump
And around empty barrels
Complement the interior
And so that there were no questions,
We put the cross on the map just -
This is a glorious Peninsula
Called Taimyr

This is a plan. And if on the side,
It is quite nearby
From tent with ribbon sideways
That one among the swamps
All the hatches are gray
I do not care all
The third day sticks out like pile,
Sugoless all-terrain vehicle.

So he sticks out without the road,
And under him lies the sega
He is like God for us,
So, it knows what however.
He is a sledgehammer wipe gently
And scientists of ignorant
The third day behind him with hope
Go like a doctor.

And what, to hell, jokes:
So he lies the third day -
Pile of rusty metal
Revant is not in a hurry
And before us without tense
Among expressions
Those that serve as consistency
For the soul soul.

And who she is in hunt,
This damn job
Just get from the swamp,
And they burn it with fire!
This is what happens:
Sleep in an embrace with all-terrain
And wife alone half a year
With a one-year-old boy!

And from the thoughts of those unnecessary
There is such a silent
So asks outside
All Sergine Tosca
And back her like a stake
He nails in one verb,
Replacing topics verb
All wealth languages.

And flies through all obstacles
For Tirado Tirade,
All the philosophers of the Otild -
Before their meaning deep
Only a pity, they are even part of them
Would not risk type
Even V.A. Korotich himself
From the magazine "Spark"

So in general these speeches
Such a factory in the evening
What do these speeches reach
Because of the packed
Even our chief Sasha
In life anyone know
Suddenly blushing like a boy
From serogin speeches.

But the moment such will come
And Sergey will stand on his feet
He looks victitive to us
And from face eaten fuel oil
Somewhere clicks
And the car comes to life
And instantly acquires
Our life and meaning and essence.

This is, not lying to her God
As-mechanic Our Serge
May say not the troubles
That vulgar, they say, and rude
But tell me for God,
What would we do on the road
Without such a serge
And his reliable hands.