Текст песни Крыс - С Работы Домой

I roll back on invisible rails,
And the body-tram just grunts on the climbs.
Long ago I ceased to wonder for how such a demon
I each question, "Why?" It was counted as a miss.
And the phrase about the fact that, well, there is nothing against breakage,
Painfully familiar.

Art requires victims, and becomes a bore,
And you can not care, and as a nag look to your teeth.
And now the sun peeping - like me - short-sighted,
Again in December blows my poor copper pipes.
"What for?" becomes "How much?", sounds rotated with air -
Nadvinu Single gate.

Winter will be long, as a memory, and a viscous, dough,
Carman will delay me wine and seventeen cents,
I'm jealous of the fugitive on the day before the arrest,
And again for dinner with a couple of fresh noodles ideek.
Again, I believe the holy fool the poor pathetic
In a direct way.