Михаил Щербаков - Вехи фатализма
текст песни

Confession is not in fashion. The roads are confused.
We will remove the catalogs. Compose a treatise.
We cut the wings there, here we tie our legs,
We will summarize the results of small costs.
What is there? You are the head in the office
Your talent oozes in the heads of all stripes,
And in your reports there are more allegories,
Than on the Black Sea of drowning people.
On a watermelon crust, wait, do not slip,
The turn of the path depends on her!
Here you will be involuntarily become a fatalist
In the image of the pure of one's own fate.

Here is your apartment, here is your salary.
The lid of the "diplomat", a drunk glass.
The former delight is now bitter,
The image of the adversary was somewhat faded.
What is there? You are the club director
You make successes, we are rich in plans -
True, from the habit of an oak you can put,
If, let's say rudely, it is to blame for something.
And when different villains opened,
All your neighbors stalled from the finger -
Oh, how you have pleased your whole family
For adultery of your own fate!

Mother -in -law - deputy minister, uncle - long -liver,
And you on a tunic - a birch with a price.
An eternal meat is a former sobering -up,
Former winner, today - Negero.
What is there? You are a cashier in the bathhouse
Pale ink, wet sheets.
There is not enough scenes against vegetation,
Only you know your efforts.
Soon curls are flying around!
Small people, stone foreheads ...
Holy you keep your dreams past
Like a tip of their own fate.

Here is your shortness of breath, here are your heart attacks.
Hard reserved seats, terrible debts.
Torn cards are dusting under the table.
Former standards are now short.
What is there? You are a minister in the morgue
Thin soles erased on the turn
And behind the turn of that watermelon crust
You can’t even find a vigilant eye already.
Last year's wind, autumn and winter ...
You would have grabbed the lunar sickle from the sky,
But the ways of the Lord are notons -
You rushed past your own fate.