Вера Полозкова - Прямой репортаж - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Without a year, week, my light, twenty-two sms back, we have not slept, forty - did not even think, and the result - here it is Palevo, we are in the opaire, and does not see the blind, as we hit and what kind of breasts we have boiling water. The lips hurt because you are all spiny; No more than my friends, nor your wife; Every person will say how difficult it is and how strongly fabrics are amazed. Israeli and Palestinian, and salt and pepper, saliva bitter; The August wardrobe pushed into the handful of us, in the palm of the wet, two numbers; Time of cravy insomnitz, tray hotels, conspiratorial jargon and humor; Two puppies that, rolling over a ring, sleep on the emerald grass, Sommel from the heat already; All that up is solid blind spots, I will then renounce when installing. This is all, if the Lord of the will will be, I am in an old age, we entertain: here we do not take alcohol with you, so that everything happens on the sober; between jeans and t-shirt strip of the skin, the world more increasingly, as if a jack under him; We are desperately unlike you, and from this everything is fun in many times; Hair is a hard pile, in bed like a mezing with a leopard, in the head burrowing thick syrup; Think your heart - you will die with a happy old man, there will be something to tell the sons of the darts before you begin to gather in the coffin. Boy-ticket-in-last row, a boy-in-luxurious-view. I don't care what they are talking about us and who are angry with us. I plan to drink rum and Koldrex with you, build a life like a comic, prepare you bifstex; As for those who are more important than the moral code - let eternal oral sex have. Here he is - you're standing in a sheet like in Tog and foolish, and where I go now. Catapult in Paradise fucking draws - especially for those who will burn in hell.