Текст песни эхопрокуренныхподъездов - плот

big city life exudes a miasma,
We carry this child of the diaspora,
and in me an ulcer is brewing stunted sarcasm.
where my cup for plasma?
faith lyase wheels screeched and clanged
Here pelvis for alcoholism and dishes
oh, how they want to Hell Verse
I call it a foothold Christian orgasms
in the gas chamber only pray?
Enough spasm these whorish person
Buddhism is serene beaches in Nice
Christianity - the tears of the Russian province
prostrate on the sofa, Mary, Ivans
and in the holy bath (January) invites accept on TV (as you believe)
lived through moments with the help of bozheyu
how to believe, but do not become a vegetable?

Well, let
It will not be easy my way,
pulled to the bottom of the pain and sadness,
previous load errors.
but my raft,
retinue of songs and words,
all my troubles out of spite,
not so bad!