Текст песни Ботанический Сад Петра Великого - почерк

My handwriting - does not call insults
or even block the truth.
My handwriting, plump appearance,
It carries a nonsense -
the main vice.

Pathetic, tasteless dressed
He walks into a crowded
unshakeable place
where dozens of skilled poets
They left no trace, scars and frescoes.

What a romantic, though:
Wanders down the alley
the merits of others,
acts of dashing,
passionate revelations.

His conquests - in your pocket
the wind blew, whistling:
Port whore is on his knees,
unwilling fate queens.