Mc Mif - Каменный Век Русской Поэзии - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

There is a secret code, but no one can recall it, you must tear off your breed in order to enter the prohibited society of a black cipher from a running water, notes, numbers and points, but if you notice, your choice, choose between oak and you, we live like Pisces - a jamb, in the constant state of coma, acquaintances confuse us with insects, because we rhyme in our own hive, while wolf hordes were grinning on the shark of flocks, we were looking for his honeycombs, and for the hundredth time they disappeared, and we stayed, and we stayed, we stayed, and we stayed, And they created a system of signs from the remains of four elements, you can own this knowledge, but who said that at the right time, and meanwhile, it is necessary that to apply it, Amen, the Min dynasty, you gave us writing, now you can leave, not sadness, you will go to firewood, I heard that the porcelain burns well, the caravan sticks out on the silk path, the sugar head is silent, the bricks should be shared in half in order to close the failure from the ram - this is please, but only it is early to pump the rights, from the scanning - to shamanism, speech Itativ instead of reading instead of reading, this style is not always authentic, but closer to atylla than to Byzantium, there is a textbook there is a chance, yes, and get to Khantymanthic, my ideal MS is rain, which is drizzling, or a mixture of a mueuezin with gasoline, leaves with gasoline, The sheets of the stone book are saturated with marvelous force, there is no place for a beautiful italics, but gross cuneiform symbols, laughter of crazy is an incentive for simulating the creative process, as well as the taste of incest and the spirit of a latrine place

The world, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,

but what to climb the blade with a run, you can be useful here

silver disappeared into the abyss, gold was pulled on crosses

And this is what I dreamed about - the stone age of Russian poetry

There is an underground passage, but few people willingly believe him, only to those, to the right breed in the soil, the gates of the prefabricated world from shapeless clay, words, dreams and corns can open, everything is allowed here - to create patterns of flocks and jacks, to guess on soy. braid the voice and hayfields and hayfields and haymaking, completely forget, where you are, in the tangled forces of the house, and sit comfortably, put a pillow under your head, even though life has disappeared, you still do not need to go to the sleepers, but you have to live, from the fake of the feces of the sand of the sand tendons as a puzzle were folded, stuffed, sewn up and drawing along the pattern, let them down on the sea, but they forgot to think, not knowing that the contents were transferred and became the very style that was given the name of three nodules on each eyelash, little whether that I will dream, but still you need to wake up, touch the hand of stone, moss and fuel oil, you hear sounds, this ruins call druids, the plains call Bedouins, the ice-legged period of the carved pipe corpses of enemies telephone booth busy - this mosaic is fragile, like a statue from a dried fruit, we dump in a pile and steel, and root, words and bark we solder to each other from the rearrangement of the places of terms, the amount does not change

The world, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,

but what to climb the blade with a run, you can be useful here

silver disappeared into the abyss, gold was pulled on crosses

And this is what I dreamed about - the stone age of Russian poetry