Cra3yМатрёшка x Юля Келасова - Танцы бедного оркестра
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Cra3yМатрёшка x Юля Келасова - Танцы бедного оркестра - оригинальный текст песни, перевод, видео
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Музыка заденет сердце.
И тебя закружит в ритм.
Танцы бедного оркестра.
Будят теплоту внутри...
Он так мечтал о ревущем олимпийском.
Но как большинство таких как он поёт под викси.
В захулостнум баре,где публика как зона риска.
Где считается обслугой профессия артиста.
Корпоративы,свадьбы.Облизывать кто платит.
Пьяное быдло дерётся,заливает скатерть.
Он их поздравляет,играет про любовь.
Зажимая ля ре ми,бывает фа и соль.
Он видит её взгляд необычный и печальный.
Такой что сразу хочется открыть мечты и тайны.
Она влюбилась в его голос и движенье рук.
А зрительный контакт,среди пороков святой круг.
Шёпот в медленном танце.Касания опасные.
Кабинка туалета где проснётся буря страсти.
Опаздает с перерыва,выговор от боса.
Но в эту ночь он так споёт что всем утрёт там нос.
Казалось бы,вот счастье.Для жизни стимул новый.
Но лекции от мамы,как он тебя прокормит?
Музыкант ведь это - тоже самое что бомж.
Ты больше мне не дочь,вонзаешь в сердце нож.
Подруги всё ей трут,как их на Бали зовут.
У одной Айфон,у второй Самсунг.
А она им про то как важно струны новые.
Поставить на концерте,чтобы звук был ровный.
влюбиться чтоб сбежать,от перёкрёстных мнений.
Что косят словно холокост подобных отношений.
Мы выдержим мы сильные,просто дай нам время.
Бедность не имеет,состава преступленья.
Я просто делал что люблю.не думав о богатстве.
Со сложною мечтой,трудно найти простое счастье.
А она ему: "Не кипишуй.я понимаю."
Сказки с хеппи ендом,всё-таки бывают.
Старенький стратокастер,блестящмий саксофон.
Ударные и бас,скрипка и микрофон.
Грязные танцы,красные фонари.
Мы производим то тепло что у тебя внутри.
Музыка звучит как надо,свет электрошок.
Чтоб вас раскачать,нам не нужен порошок.
Будем петь так круто как позволит нам наш потолок.
Про любовь до гроба громко так чтобы ты оглох.
Music will touch the heart.
And you will be spinning in the rhythm.
Dancing the poor orchestra.
Wake the warmth inside ...
He so dreamed of a roaring Olympic.
But like most of people like him sings under Vixing.
In the hail bar, where the audience is as a risk zone.
Where the profession of the artist is considered to be a service staff.
Corporate parties, weddings. WHICH WITH AND WHO PAYS.
A drunken cattle fights, floods the tablecloth.
He congratulates them, plays about love.
Clutching a r -mi, there is FA and salt.
He sees her gaze unusual and sad.
Such that I immediately want to discover dreams and secrets.
She fell in love with his voice and movement of her hands.
And eye contact, among the vices of the holy circle.
A whisper in a slow dance. The show is dangerous.
The cabin of the toilet where a storm of passion will wake up.
Frozen from a break, reprimand from the bos.
But that night he will sing so much that his nose will take off there.
It would seem, here is happiness. For life, the incentive is new.
But lectures from mom, how will he feed you?
After all, the musician is the same as a homeless person.
You are no longer my daughter, you stick a knife into my heart.
Girlfriends are all rubbing her, as they are called in Bali.
One iPhone has, the second Samsung.
And she is about how important the strings are new.
Put at the concert so that the sound is even.
Fall in love to escape, from shifted opinions.
That they mow like a Holocaust of such a relationship.
We can stand it strong, just give us time.
Poverty has no crime.
I just did what I love. Not thinking about wealth.
With a difficult dream, it’s hard to find simple happiness.
And she to him: "Do not boil. I understand."
Fairy tales with Heppy an end, there are still.
An old stratocaster, shiny saxophone.
Shock and bass, violin and microphone.
Dirty dances, red lights.
We produce the heat that you have inside.
The music sounds as it should, the light is an electric shock.
To swing you, we do not need a powder.
We will sing as cool as our ceiling will allow us.
About love to the coffin loudly so that you are deaf.
And you will be spinning in the rhythm.
Dancing the poor orchestra.
Wake the warmth inside ...
He so dreamed of a roaring Olympic.
But like most of people like him sings under Vixing.
In the hail bar, where the audience is as a risk zone.
Where the profession of the artist is considered to be a service staff.
Corporate parties, weddings. WHICH WITH AND WHO PAYS.
A drunken cattle fights, floods the tablecloth.
He congratulates them, plays about love.
Clutching a r -mi, there is FA and salt.
He sees her gaze unusual and sad.
Such that I immediately want to discover dreams and secrets.
She fell in love with his voice and movement of her hands.
And eye contact, among the vices of the holy circle.
A whisper in a slow dance. The show is dangerous.
The cabin of the toilet where a storm of passion will wake up.
Frozen from a break, reprimand from the bos.
But that night he will sing so much that his nose will take off there.
It would seem, here is happiness. For life, the incentive is new.
But lectures from mom, how will he feed you?
After all, the musician is the same as a homeless person.
You are no longer my daughter, you stick a knife into my heart.
Girlfriends are all rubbing her, as they are called in Bali.
One iPhone has, the second Samsung.
And she is about how important the strings are new.
Put at the concert so that the sound is even.
Fall in love to escape, from shifted opinions.
That they mow like a Holocaust of such a relationship.
We can stand it strong, just give us time.
Poverty has no crime.
I just did what I love. Not thinking about wealth.
With a difficult dream, it’s hard to find simple happiness.
And she to him: "Do not boil. I understand."
Fairy tales with Heppy an end, there are still.
An old stratocaster, shiny saxophone.
Shock and bass, violin and microphone.
Dirty dances, red lights.
We produce the heat that you have inside.
The music sounds as it should, the light is an electric shock.
To swing you, we do not need a powder.
We will sing as cool as our ceiling will allow us.
About love to the coffin loudly so that you are deaf.