Текст песни БГ - мёртвые хоронят своих мертвецов

Five hundred songs - and there is nothing to sing;
The sky turns into a locked cage.
The same old words in new font.
Comic verse for the incident in the elevator.
Sweeps through the streets of the province of drought,
My Motherland like a pig eats his sons;
With the inexorability of a supersonic drill
Gloved hand rocks the cradle.
Candles fuses on both ends.
The dead bury their dead.

Hey, does anyone remember who hung on the cross?
Righteous sausage as Tale acid;
Every time I say that we - together
I remember - the most money brings the & quot; load 200 & quot ;.
In the yellow submarine mummy in the wheelhouse.
Wheel of laughter discovers properties grinder.
Patriotism means simply & quot; kill Gentile & quot ;.
This crack goes through my heart
In muddy water no end in sight.
The dead bury their dead.

I feel like a negative on the light;
Dry rage in the heart, iron taste in the mouth,
Our happiness is manufactured in Hong Kong and Poland,
Neither the name does not fit us more;
Each young bud clockwork
We are moving down the stairs leading down
Related bird can not be singing,
Falling in the elevator with every second becomes easier.
Dogs drowned by the howling
We were taught not to live, we have been taught to die standing
You know, this game can be played two ...