Текст песни deti sarafanova - Дневник

You know, our life is very often
Looks like a story (tale!)
Or on big premie
Pretty boring novel
From boredom will be king the first, and the second - tortured conscience (but do not be afraid!)
After all, the third will create the Son, the tree will grow up, will build at home!

Well, we are with you,
Unfortunately nothing left
As soon as drink, smoking
Plus to give an hour for love
All this enjoy the smallest thing
After all, soon my place is so
will take someone else

But let him now!
Your eyes are silent - I just need it
September outside the window and I already cut
In the kitchen escaped from the crane all the water!

And you with you not what was bored
But time came to an end, cutting a blue handle
Pages of your orange diary

You know our life very often looks like movies (films)
Everyone is waiting when the light turns on and we will go home
Someone tried up, his dreams in the morning he will change the alarm clock
Nervous long-lasting creek

And we have no money to the movie with you (here is pity!)
We all descended to drink smoking
Plus on the passage on the subway
You thought I thought it was just affection (the smallest)
I hoped, believed
what is love

Again, I was wrong!

And here they burn the lights of high-rise buildings
But we are not so important to us
Until tomorrow will wait for your business

Turn off the phone, lowered wallets
Do not ask questions and do not ask anything
This time everything will be sure

You know sometimes our death
comes suddenly (like this!)
So suddenly that looks
On clever deception
Then life is better as a story of an unknown author
Or at least as big
Pretty boring novel

And let you with you again there is nothing left
After all, soon I am so
Replace other
But thanks for this,
for this pleasant thing
Thanks for drinking and smoking.
and for a piece of love

Forget you of course to me
Pretty will be hard
I will wait for the moment, time measuring tules
So fly weeks, months and year

All our relationships are so rustily
And in life, I remained yours only on a piece of paper.
On the pages of your salad
On the pages of your purple
On the pages of your orange diary