Стрижка

verse 1

And I'm not the one that with Patlakh sweat , not gopote
Under 3 millimeters my haircut - my personal patent
Society was lost - cut in bold black grouse ?
What, again naebyvaesh people rubbing her hands ?

Per and I will shove - chasing forever on the pen
Somehow older - in Novogireevo rubbed for rap
Brother - Hare - of a haircut modnyavyh kare
I as a vestige of the era of Stalin's concentration camps

Just under machine shaved cabbage - as befits a man
I Squeaks fashion stylist say we are slightly overdone
Then I smile back because of the conscience is not pinched
fuck me those trendy sushi I 'll eat soup

poems do not look , I'm not a poet - and we finally can sing
to release the pain of the soul porvanoy as rags
here longing spear pierce his chest and maybe finish off
well, I 'd like to keep life at least for her

chorus

Swifts short - whiled away the days but not on the courts
if what was involved somehow - there is no dope
stroking the cat, looking out the window , getting ready for the cold
I know hardly able to pick up an octave on the frets

Yes - I do not need raschestka , yes - I'm not the best example ,
Yes - I kayatsya late , yes - I'm always on the shit ,
Yes - unfortunately did not exigent vivid manner ,
but the feeling in me is not sold for a handful of coins

verse 2

trimmed whiskey - Th say - well, the spitting image of the skin
all without par brains - closer again in the evening outing
Pimp skill spitting off the cliff where the river bend
evening not to be seen not pitch black , at least right here and take Sgin

heart to pieces and collect Nitsche - came again
dipressuha winter - sat throwing pea
how to weed out the slag as empty inside as if the hose
you can not turn back even - out goes the same as was

on the living scar guilty tap that staring obliquely
No , I do not know the route - at least on the sleeve of her jacket compass
office is not mine - licking tits trembling before the boss
I do not believe in network marketing , I believe th space

length hair- shit question - of course a matter of taste
dealing in bonds , which again hang around the neck dead weight
I disappeared into the crowd of passers-by to hide their identity
all about me fill only the music