Ложный Сальвадор Дали и Два Тройных - Петр
текст песни

Written-by-Konstantin Amlyushkin

Our Peter, Burlatsky son,
A descendant of glorious generations,
Carries his cargo, completely alone
The spirit of moments sings and bends.
But then came to an end to everything
Our Peter stood in thought and froze:
Why is he now wine,
The inheritance of the bathhouse,
Where they sold rot and dust
Where the thought was called a noise
Where blood flowed under the table,
And he sang
About that about ...

Peter rolled up his sleeves. It was necessary to wash off the dirt from the hands. More precisely from the hands. He rolled his sleeves to the elbow so as not to soak. It seems to have taught mom like that. Water poured from the tap. Soap, foam. It seems to be clean. But some smell tormented Peter. “Rowan flies, pah, beads, like a dawn,” he hummed, mumbled God -feared. He began to remember. “There would be nothing to stink, everything around is sterile. Come on, God with him, you never know what will seem,” he thought and opened the door to the restroom. “Fu, what a nasty thing!” He yelled and slammed the door. Ignorance of the foundations of sciences and arts gives itself from time to time to know. He saw nothing. Light poured from the restroom. The operator changed the parameters of contrast, light and shadow. "But what a stink"?! Peter was silent. Outside the window was already getting dark. What to do? Torzanya, Millon them. What is actually tormented by? Well, I kicked some dog on the way home. Why did she grind something? Nothing, departs. And what, Peter, is he to do now? This was tormented by this. “I'm blinded!” Pyotr said. “No, it doesn’t sound tragic ...” thought. "I ...", - in confusion, looking for words, Peter looked at his hands. He twisted them, clashed, disassembled ... "And my hands are some kind of dirty, ugly,” he thought to himself. "What about me"? Radio: "Nothing." Peter jumped to his feet, jumped out of the slippers, grabbed the newspaper, poked his finger at his photo on the main page. With his dirty finger ... Peter: "A"! Radio: "Such millons." Image in the photo: "Do not touch me, your hands are dirty." In the photo, the author captured Peter. More precisely, half-Petra. One of the halves of Peter was visible. Left or right ... Peter, more precisely, half-Petra walked along the street, where the building was blown up at the same moment. How he got into the frame. He did not even remember. Radio: "You have to look around." Pyotr: “Tsitsy. Yes, yes, I have dirty hands,” muttered Peter. "Nightmare". He grabbed the little, still grandmother's scissors and began to cut his nails. Then he took a file, sawed it. He extended one hand. I looked. "Well, it seems to be better. It’s still necessary to wash." Hot water, steam and Peter with shiny hands. He already forgot about the photograph - admired his hands. More precisely, half of their hands. The other half remained somewhere else. A photo in the newspaper claimed to be claimed. Peter saw and tossed them entirely. But in the category of essence there was only half. The torment continued. Tomorrow threatened with a finger, today the juices sucked, and yesterday ... Was it? The chair held Peter. It got dark. More. Still.