немногогрустный - Инфекция - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Soon I will see Winter

And I will walk under the white sky at night

Soon buy buds

And I will run away from passersby

Soon 770 kilometers

And you can forget

Soon Neva and Fountains

Here would fall in love in St. Petersburg

Someday necessarily, after 5 or 10 years

I will return to this city, run - the same direct prospects

I will see unshaven, strange but cute guys

Lost, slim and surely smokers beauties

Low bridges, night twilight

Yes all this is mine, I'll love it

After all, all my life dreamed of stalling

In your gaming arms

Yet, I do not think that Peter will be happy to me

But somehow do not care, the city of rain milf is the heart of the poet

Of this ugly, forgotten, twenty-first century

Probably, it is a pity that he was never familiar with the Loupered Mayaki Singness Yesenin, confusing Brodsky and ancient proghost Alexandrov Sergeevich.

Not everyone was here, not everyone could love the city. But I feel as if he was impregnated with them.

I hope, rather, flying like a falcon to take a niche, gone between them

So that my name ever read not only on the faded tombstone

My grandchildren will be ugly me

Is it not all

But it's still better to return to the sources

Say about how my soul is bad

Suffering this way out of any situation

Especially if you give them will

Feeling after love as an orgasm after masturbation

I dream not to reach something like autofillation

Threads on the body, merry substances wearing veins

It's a pity, I left with anything and anyone again

Loneliness is more likely to get out, rather than escape

Girls do not understand and do not take

Then you have to finish under Fat Asians Bitches

And I will probably be fashionable if I continue to drive about violence, insane and porn

How glad I'm left again

Evening, night, wind grabs me not get even if burning body

I'm getting worse and go there where it was not yet, where did not get there

Even if we promise hundreds of other blowjobs to schoolboy as I

I do not want to declare in society, which is not up to me

I was not and I do not

This is the only correct answer.

Yet, I do not think that Peter will be happy to me

But somehow do not care, the city of rain milf is the heart of the poet

Of this ugly, forgotten, twenty-first century

After all, all poems are already written

All songs are not overwritten to the tenth time

And books and movies, became a refuge for all of

That was so afraid of directors and writers of modern times of the past

Everything turned out not just in nothing

Ideas just ended

Do not even thoughts too

And each passerby is too similar or tries to be similar

On the portrait of the former chill writer

That dying from the survey

In thoughts, without inventing anything better

than a passionate hero

Looking for yourself

of the past

Take me, big-stone town

I will drown in your fountains and closed courtyards

Picking HIV local vagrants

Pour me back yet, but it's very hard

Chest will not break, caused by a heart knock