para-mi - Зажми мне рот чем-нибудь - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Pull my mouth with something, well, come on, overwhelm, break out the cry from the larynx to the bend of the dry thigh, even if the rustic and rude cut, the pink edge of my capricious mouth, pour my voice from the spine of the telephone tube, and In order not to ask about me later - pretend to be deaf, in the darkness of the entrance, who did not have time to hug hands, missed calls, not happening poems, a rolling echo above the stooped city bars, I touch and feel the pulse of the iron cheeks of the tram. Well hello. I had not written letters for you before, when smiling, living, complex people, in my opinion, still have a simple and all banal people-more than once written on a curb, a curb, a parapet-like to drink from one cup, undress slowly, late write your name on your cigarette - and do not smolder, you know, not to remain without electricity. There is a money, without sense, staggering in minus thirteen, become a hollow of your lungs, a recess of heaven and want to stay, want to stay, and then in the middle of the heels of the street, in the middle In a nest, a tearful face stops to fix your hair and you decide to live through your teeth to the end

October, and after it seems to be exactly and good. Morning. Lecture.

And in your head you put your palm to my soft mouth,

You still call and still try to promise

Do not stretch on half a wool around the stomach.

In this city, no matter how many thousands of people, lanes under the throat, the names of newspapers and pushing shoulders, “you” tearing the shabby heart of the pages, and mom asks for everything and asks to protect herself, and I also do not hear through the autumn, entering with the discolored with my shoulders, lining, embraced, thin, a headache for myself whiskey, laugh and look into my eyes, I think how much is there so that they don’t pump it out ... I am lying, undressed childish, torn to pieces, bite - and floods, throwing my head away, as if I were still me Someone can hear. And this is November. And this is the nineteenth. Nineteenth. The holder, painted in the blond, loving. And in general, come on, with the palm of his mouth, or to Avtovo, a dull sadness, my alcohol-vulgar, heavy emptiness, which is then someone in the player and by heart, will be heard.