Текст песни набор строк - ОГЛОБЛЯ

Eyes on the ceiling, cum on the floor -
the boy is engaged in abstract hip-hop.

He stands in front of the door and presses the bell.
A finger falls into a plastic case.
The head props up the cold metal of the door,
inside screams and quarrels (do not call) you can not hope
that will open soon. A thud and silence.
Shuffling steps and a childish voice.
Who's there?
really who?

I'm a rap! Oh, that makes me laugh too.
I AM ABSTRACT! No, that makes me even more sick.
I am a loser poet singing about the lost.
Bundles of hiding meaning between bad punches.
I am Sancho Panza in a world where every Gascon gooseless youth
imagines himself to be Don Quixote.
I quote Brecht and sample Brahms.
Shaving!
I'm a dive Boeing with a sleeping pilot.
No, let it be better than another.

I am the fool who made a cover at the hydroelectric station, read
under a stolen bit other people's texts about Stepan and Fedor.
I do not know how to get out of this stopper.
The frames are moving slowly.
My life is directed by Sophie Coppola.
Domes and drunkards with a double-headed roach.
BLOGING BITTERFUL BARK AND A FLAP!

I'm that Chinese from the radio room that can not use the player
and puts rotten rips from vinyls.
The same fool in a fit of great universal love
hugged the dog, even pressed into it. So it was captured
on the playground, on a gray concrete wall
between the sketchy flower and the hole in the fence.
I watch new films to be sure
that nothing has changed
to better understand Zizek's metaphors,
to stay away from anticafe as far as possible
and any independent bookstore.
For the fifth time, I start reading Joyce unsuccessfully.
Reached the place where Daedalus said
that God is the scream of a boy who scored a goal.
A knock on the window distracts me.
“Do not write good texts if your only reader is the table!”
A boy screams in torn jeans and a leaky sweatshirt.
And I recognize by his long patls and sunken cheeks
himself young, drunk, perfectly stupid.
He throws me a time travel ticket,
approved by order of the Ministry of Transport.
I tell him not to eat a lot of flour in the evening.
And showing what happened to our beautiful fingers.
I say that I do not have a table.
I am in a little room
sandwiched between a cupboard and a kitchen cabinet.

I'm not the kind of person who should stand with a microphone.
I've got 99 problems!
And I’ve still owned 'em.