Текст песни Проект Увечье - Стрижка

Verse 1

And I'm not the one to Patlakh with sweat, not gopota
Under 3 millimeters my haircut - my personal Patent
Society was lost - cut in bold black grouse?
What, again naebyvaesh people rubbing her hands?

Per and I will shove - to drive forever to re
Somehow older - in Novogireevo rubbed for rap
Brother - Hare - among modnyavyh with kare haircut
I like the era of Stalin's concentration camps rudiment

Just under machine shaved cabbage - as befits a man
I squeaks fashion stylist supposedly we have slightly overdone
Then I smile back because of conscience pinched
fuck me these trendy sushi I eat soup

do not look for poems, I'm not a poet - and we finally can sing
to release the pain of the soul porvanoy as rags
here longing spear pierce his chest and maybe finish off
Well, I'd like to keep life at least for her

chorus

Swifts short - days whiled away but not on the courts
if what was involved somehow - there is no dope
stroked the cat, look out the window, getting ready for the cold
I know hardly be able to pick up an octave on the frets

yes - I do not need raschestka, yes - I'm not the best example,
Yes - I kayatsya late, yes - I'm always on the shit,
Yes - unfortunately did not exigent specimen of manners,
but the feeling in me is not sold for a handful of coins

Verse 2

trimmed whiskey - Th say - well, the spitting image of the skin
all, not par brains - closer again in the evening outing
Bleed the skill spitting off a cliff where the river bend
evening not to be seen not pitch black, though right here and take Sgin

heart to pieces and collect Nitsche - came again
dipressuha winter - sat throwing jacket
how to weed out the slag when empty inside as if a hose
you do not even turn back - same goes away as was

on live scar guilty Touch that staring obliquely
No, I do not know the route - at least on the sleeve jacket compass
office is not mine - licking tits trembling before the boss
I do not believe in the network marketing -I believe in space

and the length hair- shit question - of course a matter of taste
dealing in bonds, which again hanging on his neck dead weight
I disappeared into the crowd of passers-by to hide their identity
all about me just fill this music