сашина плешь feat. Узница Совести, Иван Смех - Поэтическое противоречие
текст песни

The poet asked the poet, are you a poet?
To which the poet replied no to the poet
That I didn’t want to be a poet
In the eyes of other poets
I don't like your lyrics world
The sea and sadness do not inspire
Coffee rain or snow crunch
Plaid wool dislike and cider
Peter Peter and Peter again
The poet consumer will not create anything new
Will not open his eyes when opening his mouth
As if in a coffin, he puts poems in a notebook
Until you decide what you want
I've already been disappointed in everything a couple of times
Too few notes too many But
The letters form the wrong words
They don't spread their legs for my poetry
My poems make my head spin
Poetry is a space in which it is cramped
An image created by someone
Seemed more interesting than the depth of the cut
Your own mental wound
I looked inside - into this abyss
There are like pigeons swarming with flaws
It would seem that grab any of them - write
Poetry is when it's normal
She doesn't need pencils
Typewriters. Drawings and photographs
(mixed one with the other
It turned out to be something else
Touched my chest after hearing the anthem
Found the bottom)

One poet asks the second
How do you like my word? A?
How do you like my word?
How do you like my rhyme, fag?
Ask more people on the street
Do they care about the color of your face?
Every extra word that you fucked up
Speeds up the clock hands
Towards your end, boy
The real Russian poet is only the one who has seen
Alina Vitukhnovskaya's vagina
I saw Alina's vagina and remained alive
The real poet is pitiful and abandoned
Dies in the corner offended
There is an ulcer on the face in a bottle of hashish drops
The poet dies offended in the best traditions
Fags from France
On the cloudy mirror, cocaine and temporary pollen
Beginning of the twentieth century Yulia Drunina poems about war
Drunina suffocated and died. The cranes flew away
Dissident hanged himself with his sleeve
The only real Russian poet is
Who saw Alina Vitukhnovskaya's vagina
I saw Alina's vagina and remained alive
Don't cry my hero
(one time at a time is not necessary
two by two, maybe
there is a cute face under anyone's face
face disfigured by everyday life)

The poet composed the words
The poet composed poems, composed words
The poet composed the poet was a Buryat
The poet lapped therefore he composed
Syllables into words words into lines
I scribbled lines until my pencil was sharpened.
Hey Borya, you're a poet, didn't you lie?
Hey Borya, did you lap up the word syrup?
Why put words together when there is current?
One hundred arms, one hundred legs, one hundred people around
And every living person breathed
You can breathe if you don't put it down
And I quite like the crunch of snow
I don’t like putting it together, but it’s simple
I don’t like putting it together, but it’s simple
I don't like folding but it's easy
Here's a crunch. Came home. Folded and sang
Then the poet will listen to all this
Here's a crunch. Came home. Folded and sang
Then the poet will listen to all this