добрыйутром - крутое пике - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I am a samurai, ninja. Clotting me with suitable piles to change. In order to take and not let go for a week, so that he was glad in the snow, and in hail, and in a storm, and in slush. And let my consciousness blow out.

It will no longer be worse. Or it will be, but I will hardly not notice it. The main thing is to outline the goal and go to it, turn away from the turns, plug ears so as not to hear thousands of mouths that they intend to push.

The huckster that they want to push more expensive, people who think to stick a knife from the back. BRAN, do not worry, all the women are bitches, and she is most of all. You can without her, she doesn’t need you, but don’t discourage, you just saw the edge.

Do not break and do not break. Do not promise that you are not going to fulfill. Do not lie, do not ask for what you yourself can get. The tit in the hands is good. But just try and the crane will be yours too.

Leave half the cigarette to a friend, help if you can help. You can’t run away from yourself, do good, keep sincere. Do not sweat him with another bottle of whiskey. Everything will work out, just be yourself.

Not no, I will do it for you in my songs, you are strong, stronger than me. My happiness is supported only by drugs and her fingers on the ribs. I want to get out of here in the most distant Dali with her.

I will read poetry about spontaneous feelings. About how I found myself in her eyes. About what the blue sky is in the Alps, at the peak. And let our relationships never end like a flight "at a cool peak."

So I want to talk heart to heart at five in the morning, or get out of here away. Hide from this vile pseudo-lied falsehood. An alarm clock, it's time to wake up, get ready for miserable affairs.

Everything melts, the universe in polyethylene, charge me with a clean epedrine. In order for my eyes to roll up with happiness when I fight in convulsions. Hugs, you or death.

In location relatively good. But I'm kind, good in the morning. I have words, I have to explain to this shame, sediment, the remainder of the mind. And too much white noise in the space of four corners.

Not enough torches to illuminate the void, darkness inside. But wait, look, there is a fire, it burns behind the door. It is an inscription.

Fourty.

Three.