Текст песни алена швец - бездарность

Burnt ceiling
Bloody hands
So one poet could not
Describe in separation verses
So he punished himself,
For the mediocrity of their thoughts
I couldn't, I didn't write
Only a white leaf stained

He shouted - "I am mediocre"
He trampled on his poems
Beat in panic yelling
Beat my knees

"Why am I not him?
Why am I not Pushkin?
I'm a wretched person
Just a pathetic little animal "

The poet looked out the window
And the sky attracted him
Carefree and easy
His body flew
His body flew

Down to the yellow cornice
And into the pink sunset
These clouds so attracted the eccentric
But now a poet who is untalented and undressed
He was little years old, and now he is not

Blood bloomed from a curly head,
That gave birth to poetry about bed and love

I will tell you
I'll tell you a secret
I'm a poet too
Where is my pink dawn?
Where are my clouds?
Where is the head in the curls?
Let it be slightly in blood
We poets don't care
No problem, no problem