Михаил Серебро - Хороший-плохой
текст песни

The long composition suddenly beats up on rails with longing
He sits by the window, he sits in a half and misses
The night drives the night, the lights run away,
Thoughts Grave longing, runs peace
Some kind of good, good
I'm driving a stuffy train, I'm going home to my mother
Eight years from call to call flew
Eight years old, eight winters, eight years fired
On the table of sausage, vodka drunk all
Thoughts take home by themselves
Some kind of good, good
I'm driving a stuffy train, I'm going home to my mother
Where is that house, where is my youth you are dashing
Where is that house and that garden and that girl young Galya
Dreams and hopes remained forever
Where eight years old, there is behind the bald mountain
Some kind of good, good
I'm driving a stuffy train, I'm going home to my mother
Three years of the last answers, the mother did not glorify her son
For three long years, news did not give about herself
Alive, not alive, but he goes there
Where is the mother of the father’s house Il Il A abandoned hill
Some kind of good, good
Travels on a train on a stuffy train, rides
Some kind of good, good
He rides on a train on a shower train, rides home to mom ...