Ансамбль Тчк - НИИ Мясо
текст песни

White life negros
Fall onto a yielding curb
From rich carriages
Plastic surface of convolutions
Dream about political correctness.
Seven feet under the keel
Become a common or separate scrap
Your presence will not make the krill tastier.
Ew, wrinkling a whale's whiskers will only spit
Into a bottomless pit
People without shores is national
Someone will scribble the boys’ haiku for us
You're a bad whale food
Hollow and cherish the disease from all the cracks
And even though the puppy is submissive to you
And the ranks of women groan
You are a mannequin and this neck is the very purpose
Wearing an expensive item
For electronic money
Stand still, don't blink
There's only a moment between moments
And across the river is the whole world
He moans and smokes
Laughs and eats shrimp for lunch
Prefers the best
The plastic world will win
Anyway

You open the package and inside is a Chinese plastic mannequin.
Pointing at you in front, you pull him out and ask, timidly
Where is the slot for pennies in you?
Cave melodies of people in loindresses
Do they make your day more pale and gloomy? less bitchy udder?
Does the witch in the hole turn time into dry fuel?
In the depths of the tavern, probably deliberately, systematically
Why were mannequins made by no one and for what by someone?
The tape will stretch into inferno, the system knows what is in the strokes taken
In the removed brains they find out how many were not released
Chilly under the scanner the body is biased, fiscal
The buttons are pressed, the mannequin is chopped and gutted by machines.
Plastic will become pajamas, melt to you in a fire, such a pity
A mannequin leaves the assembly line, lackeys run to check where the slot for kopecks is in the new you
The mileage is twisted, the fractal is closed, the chorus is victory

The plastic world won, the model turned out to be stronger,
The last lantern has cooled down, the last boat is tired

In the painter's studio sits a wooden jointed mannequin, all on hinges.
Frank as truth in gaping holes, in places juicy Lenin of elbows and knees
It smells like dust and decay, smells like turpentine, the painter has already stretched the canvas
What kind of model you become, does it matter?
If you're not alive and you're posing for nothing, who cares?
Underpainting of lilac black outline swirls under a rough brush
Brush in alliance with credit cards, paint with glory
Poetry has no words for mixed arts
Who is your master, a genius, a mediocrity, a hack?
I will sell him to his slanderer
Because Adam was created from clay
You're Adam's allowance - a free sitter
Who am I if they cry and walk around
On hinges and in holes, I sold my conscience

There are many mannequins among people
Think maybe your boyfriend is among them
Or that lackey who speaks objectively of doubts
Measured in meters, sad meter d hotel
I wish I could run aground and there's a thaw nearby
Hungry uncles and aunts think in half measures about halftones
And they deliberately push me into a stall
Is it worth it?
And how long will these calculations and numbers last?
Everyone goes from the hospital to the morgue and not from the morgue to the hospital
The pain is gone, I've already fallen on my face and it's time to settle down
Birds sing about the steppe and unborn children will not chew on this nonsense
A mannequin sits in a painter's studio

The plastic world won, the model turned out to be stronger,
The last flashlight has cooled down, the last boat is tired