Саша Кладбище - Френсису несколько лет за двадцать
текст песни

Francis for several years in twenty,
He is pretty and always drunk.
Likes to dress from a needle,
Lives to leave for the ocean.
Francis does not know the boundaries:
Girls, poker and alcohol ...
Francis is in the hospital: malaise, shortness of breath, pain.
The doctor evaluates the color of the skin, measures the pulse on the wrist of the hand, listens to the lungs, the heart, too, looks at the nails and proteins. The doctor sighs: "What a pity!" Francis is clear that he is not a fool, in general, he did not have long left - either syphilis or cancer there.
Three months, maybe five - not more. If at sea - possibly six. Soon he will have to work hard or eat something in pain. Francis nods, takes a piece of paper with a finely scheduled misfortune. The doctor sighs heavy behind the door - sorry for the patient, so young!
That's the beginning of everyday drama. Just paying for a visit to the doctor, Francis comes to his mother with a smile: “Mom, I want to see the world. I was too tired of the city’s gloss, I would be in Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal ... Mom, you remember, I dreamed about traveling about traveling. ”
Mom is gray, with a sigh of furtively, looks at Francis through Lornet: “Honey, of course, everything is in order, well, go, why not! I will pray daily, Francis, my beloved son, do not forget to write from there and go back home soon. ”
Having made a promise to the old mother to write a letter for many, many years, Francis takes a bag with things and takes a ticket to the ship. Mother let not recognize grief, thinks Francis, ascending on board.
Time is leaving. The ship is in the sea, the rain is a veil above the head.
Behind the ocean - forever summer. To avoid the bustle of the worldly, Francis takes off his house somewhere, where the noise of the surf and the breeze of the sea. Here, wiping whiskey from moisture, sitting on the veranda at the Bureau table, he takes out a blank sheet of paper, also an inkwell and a feather. Attacks of pain twisted again. At night, you see, it will not fall asleep at all. “Mother, hello. Alive? Healthy? I - as usual - is pleased with everything. "
At night, it really does not sleep from pain. Francis, throwing a bathrobe, gets up, drinks water again - and writes letters, writes for many years to come. About travel, mountains, countries, meetings, separation and city, the taste of milk, the aroma of saffron ... Simple and fun. As always.
Mother, reading letters, crying, tears on whites flow on the sheets: "Francis, dear, my beloved boy, how good that you are happy there." It has long been dependent on injections, hellish pain is to leave the bed. But daily - ten letters, ten stories for five weeks. The handwriting is uneven - from pain terrible: "Mom, I'm sorry, we are shaking on the way!" Letters must be finished with a joke; "I got married here again!"
On the shore of the ocean, the waves catch Musson flowing from heaven. Francis will no longer hurt, Francis looks his last dream, in the savannes is wrapped in a robe, the sandal behind him smells of a robe. The local priest reads the coffin quietly parting words into another world.
The swarthy servant as an Asian on Wednesdays, also on Fridays at two o’clock in the post, wears envelopes with delirium, hundreds of stories from the dead man. And a year later - there is no getting anywhere, old age is not a joy, as they say - the mother died, the heart grabbed.
Years go. For many years in a row, letters are floating from behind the ocean, as if hope is still alive.
In the bag carries the postman properly
From anyone a word to anyone.