Нигатив - Циник
текст песни

Let’s talk—though in conversation, I’m quieter than a mime.
A wayward father, husband, son; in my excuses lie some two hundred reasons.
And at times I’m so bitter, I feel I should have joined the young crowd long ago.
But they have their spliffs, while I have the blues; what for them is a myth, for me is a fool.
I carry a stick—for in their eyes, I am a disgrace; I’ve gone quiet now, I harbor no grudges.
And I am alone—having kicked the guests out—nearly perished amidst a whirlwind of passions.
Inside me, a million headlines; on TV—deaths in traffic wrecks,
Hopeless children with SMA or CP... how could one *not* go mad, all on one’s own?
And with you thrown into the mix? Let’s just not go there.
Let’s not confuse our terms, nor try to wring pity from a callous wretch.
I’ve seen it all, and with the years, I’ve only grown grimmer and more stubborn.
So you flirted in vain, Madam; you cannot strike a flame from clay. Amen.
Life has beaten me down—but what, in the end, is the result? And what exactly are you expecting from me?
A quiet, old, raspy gramophone would offer a louder response than I ever could.
You try in vain to get through to me; your pleas and persuasion mean absolutely nothing.
I cannot offer you comfort in an embrace; I belong to the breed that would even scoff at Hachiko.
A cynic—and for the likes of me, they build no clinics.
No penance is ever imposed; I am an emotional hermit.
A textbook cynic; I know that everything comes with a price tag.
It’s merely a question of the sum involved—just your average mental slacker.
Simply put: a cynic—and for the likes of me, they build no clinics.
No penance is ever imposed; I am an emotional hermit.
A textbook cynic; I know that everything comes with a price tag.
It’s merely a question of the sum involved.
A distinct species of sentient flora: the cynic.
Yeah, right... Oh, how palpable is the darkness of this world!
How it thickens and congeals within my very heart.
How the enemy—life itself—suddenly snaps right at everyone's heels.
There are no words to tell the tale.
And no way to ever make anyone truly understand.
To scream when no one is looking...
To whimper when no one can hear...
On the surface, I appear to be a brute—yet I am the kind of brute who weeps in the dead of night.
Groaning involuntarily, drowning in a sea of ​​sorrow.
Though no warrior on the battlefield, through pain I came to realize this:
If one were to absorb it all with an open soul, most would simply give up on life right here and now.
So I buried that overwhelming excess beneath a blanket of calm; it’s easier that way—tell them so, should they ask.
A cynic—Nigativ is a cynic—and for the likes of us, they build no clinics.
No penance is ever imposed; I am an emotional hermit.
A textbook cynic; I know that everything comes with a price tag.
It’s merely a question of the sum involved—just your average mental slacker.
Simply put: a cynic—and for the likes of us, they build no clinics.
No penance is ever imposed; I am an emotional hermit.
A textbook cynic; I know that everything comes with a price tag.
It’s merely a question of the sum involved.
A distinct species of sentient flora: the cynic.