Текст песни Elijah Crowe - На мольберте

He paints clouds of gasoline in puddles
Imitating the warmth under this winter cold
Imitating a smile through a grimace of pain
Having splashed plenty of colored paint on the landscape
And on his easel, the world is not at all like ours
It does not look like a real prototype and even
Apollo himself would be taken aback if there was a place for him
After all, all his drawings are a chapel for perfection
He could easily get a world name
And even the cattle would admire his picture
Could Picasso and Da Vinci teach in many ways
And talk about the projection of the soul with Van Gogh
Be a cover on a bast art textbook
Become the face of art and for him Jesus
But then he would have lost his main resource
After all, the muse leaves with money and wealth
And now in a shabby coat and a darned beret
In his hand with an easel, the children again proudly stomp
Everyone laughs for this view with stinging mines
And later he paints them with innocent smiles
He draws moneybags with outstretched hands
And the last harlot with a graceful doe
In his paintings, we are all free as birds
And a tortured plebeian stately patrician
Yes he paints a world he has never seen
A world in which evil never sees it
And there your dream is alive, its years will not be touched
And he goes into this world and falls into a whirlpool
And he forgets that there is only a couple of potatoes for dinner
And the fact that the shoes have already become full of holes like a baking sheet
Drops from the ceiling on buckets like drums
And cockroaches will again look to him for the night
After all, only a couple of old men will pay for portraits
He will not eat them, but take an easel stand
He seems to have to take the boots for repair
But just then the paper runs out again
And so he sacrifices himself for his creations
Realizing that he is only one of them and appreciates
From its colors into this wonderful stream will plunge
And he continues to create his little world bit by bit
It's time to come to your senses, after all, it is far from young
And his muses are the dampness of cold and hunger
There is no longer any urge to create and think
But the meaning of life is only at the tip of his brush.
And he paints gasoline-colored clouds in puddles
Imitating the warmth under this winter cold
Someone's new smile he hastily draws
He paints this world and finds happiness