Владимир Высоцкий - Мистерия хиппи
текст песни

We tear - and not find the ends.
He will not give the devil - the pig will not eat.
We are the sons of our fathers,
But we are prodigal sons.

Saturated and baked! ..
We will not return - God sees -
Neither the state under the wing
Neither under the Pokrov nor on the threshold.

Lies -
Your eternal zeal!
Lies -
Impeccable life!
Rotter -
Your heart and atrium!
Inheritance - to hell!
All yours are not mine!

To hell with the burden,
We have reduced bonds to zero:
Mom does not have a little peanut
There is no college or university,
There are no crumbs at the papule.

Pretty the bullets were released -
And somewhere and some
Of our dear papul -
For the whole coil, one hundred percent!

You squeezed quite a krala
From January to January.
We are your bestial morality
From the lantern - to the lantern!

Down with
Your songs, your novels!
Down with
Your altar and anal!
Down with
Silence of your conscience!
All your fairy tales are God -dimensional - down!

Squeeze the money in rage,
Just cook without us
Your purchases and sales.
We - to your vomiting even
Tori and ecstasy!

Among the overgrown wastelands
Our house is without walls, without a roof - shelter.
We are like outcasts among people,
Aliens from other worlds.

It’s better to eat somewhere
In order to sweat with the blood later,-
Than to breathe your air,
Your wealth is rich.

Spit
We are on your superstition!
To shred
All you are, curse!
Who knows
What do we take in return for unbelief?
But our children will definitely know this!

Dreamers, fortunetellers
The Bedlam was protected.
Well, we are already in a landfill -
In the wheel of fortune sticks
Put with grief in half.

So go to us, McCinley,
In our angry soda!
You yourself are not a prodigal son?
There will be more of us, McCinley ...
Not? We ourselves will come to you!