Кот Балу - конец прекрасной эпохи
текст песни

The end of a wonderful era Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors of a second-rate power associated with this -
Not wanting to rape my own brain, handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper. The wind blows the leaves.Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the assistance of puddles, generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling. In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats;brides' toilets - New Year's white, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; Puritan morals.Linen.And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads. This region is motionless.Introducing the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in amazement, remembering the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But eagles sit like a magnet on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs stick here
on bolts and nuts. Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom;but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own labels and registers.And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death.Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes. To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult.Having lifted up the beauty’s dress, you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly guarded here, but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of the prospect. Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
maybe the five-sixths of the remaining parts in the world are too far away.Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell over me, but I can’t run away from here. I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching the cat... Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ. And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame: like a boat on the water, it won’t leave a mark on the rails
wheel of a locomotive. What do they write in the newspapers in the section “From the Courtroom”?
The sentence was carried out.Looking here, the average person will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
like a man lying face down against a brick wall, but not sleeping.For to disdain dreams
perforated have the right. The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, unable in their general blindness to distinguish those who fell out of cradles from those that fell out of cradles.
The white-eyed monster doesn’t want to look beyond death. It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik. The vigilance of these times is vigilance for the things of a dead end.
It’s not appropriate to spread your mind over the tree yet, but like a spit on the wall.And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather. The innocent head of all things is worth waiting for the ax
yes green laurel.