Gipotolamus - Паскудные метафоры
текст песни

From eternally vile metaphors
The poets keep squeezing out blood
And everyone wants to become an author
And come out of the closets into the light

The ice of superstition has long been crushed
But somewhere a shoot is sprouting
And who bound him with his sleep
That will be considered a philosopher

Something makes me sick
From the number of roses in your hands
Something is getting difficult for me
splash in your praises

From an eternally beautiful syllable
Bad misfortunes are pouring down
And the barefoot artist’s hands
Reach, reach for power

Stamped envelopes, a forgotten cause
But somewhere their price is high
How much has your soul rusted?
Or maybe a forehead like a board

Something makes me sick
From the abundance of sugar in your words
Something is getting difficult for me
splash in your praises

Eternal protest and struggle
An inexhaustible source of inspiration
Well, passion is love and fate
If anything, they will brighten up the tension

Both as an epilogue and the spirit of revolutions
As Borzykin repeats to us
The flags will get drunk with new paint
But the tangerine snow will not melt