Текст песни SharOn - Санаторий Сатаны

The hardest thing is to escape from a prison with no castles
Another ripe misanthrope will pull the shutter
With the sole purpose of spreading your wings and flying high
How many more miracles like this will bring this leap year?

Satan's sanatorium, Beelzebub sips Suntory
I am ready to give the realization that bringing pain to the head is sick to everyone
And everyone is in the position of "spitting on the laws" and are ready to write off everything on karma
Leave no stone unturned from faith in this man-bakery

Like Ibra Toshiba, beauty loser is lousy
It's quick to fill the bar with something that would never have happened anyway
In this place, all people are machines with damage to the operation of modes
Cold blood runs cold in veins, and this is the path of the possessed

Madness and hunger; this eternal youth was cut with an awl
Spenders try their luck by the tail while gin dies in a jug
And people crowd behind the screen, because the choice is quite extensive
A ride on Kashirka is obliged to lubricate the last bearing

Black market, white goods that fall into the common crap
And at best, your chance for love is Annette Schwartz
Nauseous shmar washes the track, and not a bit sorry
The sanatorium is not Elm Street, here the nightmare is tied harder

Chained by one, the transmission of infection is established
These channels are ready to carry the gene of the final phase behind you.
And ready to celebrate eternity in these vicious circles
Every first one is familiar with the UK, you woke up and again this groundhog day

They walk on horns here, because they don't care about the road to the clouds and only a booth
Interrupted daily by targeted sounds like a pop
And the squirrel will always find this righteous path; into this hell for fools
Contact is established and the engine of this mess is clearly working

The silence of the coming morning will crush the membranes of someone
The districts are shrouded in fog, a burning church without a dome
And the bullet fell to the temple, praise the horned, heat
There is a hole in the middle of the dance floor in the abode of black humor

And attempts to escape, but no one is forgotten and nothing is forgotten
Thought police will eat you like Winston Smith's London
In the meantime, it serenely takes you to where the boundaries are blurred
Every pounded cube or drunk liter enjoys the view of the elite