Текст песни DB - Рассказы

What I write the stories?
Ignoring pause
On the history? Life? Or like in the fairy tales?
That'll be gray,
I will write as the revelers
I describe all the bends
All of their victories
Over the life
I will become proud mother, son
I know that it means "beloved"
Generally leave memory
On this forgotten film
It would not woven the web
I would stay clear of rhythm
And while I'm young, and feel the exhaust
Seething flow of ideas, already under the ceiling
But not killed by thoughts
It is a miracle in the usual palette
And my pussy up on politics
At the police on the whiners
Until Patsev something smokes
And healthy person close
Through fingers ran thicker than water
I knew that it would be
Illusions do not build fate
They head circling
It was not us
These are not our stories
We are dumb
Where are we? Chase for the truth
Is not it?
Believe the last sunset
Believe in the last bet
Every time again
becoming an outcast
Who am I? I hope no one needle
But just heartbroken
Familiar?

These stories, more than truth
They are written by life
Another feather is not necessary

These stories, more than truth
It's fate, concealed the author!
And the whole electorate
I do not know will design!