Текст песни Олег Шепрут - Памяти Владимира Высоцкого

He went forty-two,
And the land loses the bills.
Do not have time to be born -
As the time to carry on the graveyard.
He lived in Russia the poet.
And his share of bitter,
For life path
The poets are extremely not easy ...
Like a tight string on the freak -
Over the arena rope
Pulsated under the village
Like a stretched nerve.
Without insurance he went
And the soul was not afraid of the barriers.
And the yawaks below
Watched the supervisionation.
But the hand of Satan,
Grounding the throat, cried verse.
I boot the ban on
His song truth is afraid;
Bleeding strings fingers
Compressive neck.
And the will rushed
Hoarse shout shout.
Yes, Surova fate,
The life of the poet putting on the con;
Only in fairy tales always
Triumph victory good.
All crackled Roulette
And tickling the time of smoking
And serving Satan,
Grinning, said: "Zero".
And the soul took off,
That drove along the cliff horses;
Flame of mournful candles
Milled the hawmed ice.
And Russia woke up in the morning,
And became the poores.
It became empty in the chest
And interrupted until the term flight ...
He went forty-two,
And the land loses the bills.
Do not have time to be born -
As the time to carry on the graveyard.
He lived in the light of the poet.
And his share of bitter,
For life path
The poets are extremely not easy.
© Oleg Sheprut, July 8, 1990