Текст песни ВАНТУЗ - ВОСЬМАЯ НОТА

You are very interested in me if full of strength and cheerful
We meet by chance because the ball is cracked
Among the song without meaning I have the eighth note
I am the eighth miracle of speech turn
I express carefully but I do not manage myself
Probably specifically I do so strange
Is it worth friends with me if my girlfriend lie
Or meet enemies on the other side of the circle
Choosing choose ... And playing thinking
After all, the world has a spinning edge, but syllables under the amount
Everything rotates in a circle returning again
Characters come to life from one word
True, like snow in Sahara falls in summer
And becomes mensthem what was under the ban
I play voices so that the current is under the hair
Discovering the air combination words for hours. That's all!

And already in this buying I will be as a soldier
I like the word is immortally shooting like a machine gun
My avatar is managed as the time of the Prophet
My armor is karma my attack without a term
I died on the barricade but again came to life back
Negligence opposite my grows multiple times
Without meaning and without mercy as if the element rages
Poems write creating worlds as if the Messiah
Schizophrenia Illusions and African Dancing
Where the Russian syllable won my words foreigners
I see there on the grief ebony hanging on crucifice
In the dress monk sends the crowd of the people to curse
While on the roof of the psychushka from the scream shovels Slate
From the impossibility of reaching the soul from the area of ​​the tvifer
Good and evil in one chane laying a spoon in a circle
I hung up like porridge Wharque Cali School

Spark breathing creativity in the dimensions of the poem
I hear high notes at these moments
So frankly and clearly as if shy
Something is released and manages lips
It's not possible to think of only to give birth through flour
Children's unique sounds are born with pain
Their perfection of the proportions are only people
Words as slender legs phrases beautiful chest
Saves the world Beauty everyone drinks her
Logic as if tailor sews the idea
High podium glory and perfection burns
No one knows the reasons no one saves her
The Savior will come back again and it seems to believe
And noble in the sole of his regalia measured
But not a thorns of the sake of living creativity
And therefore eating the dead but there is no poem

I pronounce words and chain hands
As spiders gossip what is called poems
And if someone asks and what is my job
My job is this eighth note