Leva Baron - Метро
текст песни

On the escalator down, leisurely go down,
I look at the faces of people, I sometimes scare them,
It was as if with anger covered, this whole world of dungeons,
That hysterical laughter, smiles and fun.
Someone is in a hurry, someone is walking slowly,
Not noticing that the transition from the transition interferes,
Who to work, on the nerves, fearing the bossist firstly,
Someone to the mistress, another local bitch.
Stupid novels, on the banal plot of ideas,
The guy cleans his pockets - easy money,
Young sitting pretending to have already fell asleep,
Before the veterans, and the old woman barely flickered,
Holding on to the handrails there is no strength, something grumble,
Rudely with his face, sometimes even the mat,
Into the club of non -bred, or to the best of well -fed,
Drug addicts, dobrabes, grabbing where it is visible.
These endless veins, Moscow and transitions,
Like parallel worlds of sadness and longing.
There is no God here, loneliness rules people,
Someone loses the love that they found here,
I am going through the memory of SMS in the phone,
Tender words beloved, they are now to the place,
Past the tunnels of the dark, among the noise of the cries of the wheels,
These sets of phrases are pleasant, almost to tears,
There is its own music - at the transition, a local orchestra,
Sometimes listening to himself, he considered a mediocrity.
Here talents disappeared, how many more there will be?
I don't know, I'm not a judge to them, let God judge them,
And local hucksters lurked on the corner,
Happiness in your pockets, the stones are divided into parts.
With a couple of these people, I already know
Not just a spectator, no, he was once a player,
Eternal phrase on the glass “Do not lean”,
Or in club discussions, gloss advertising,
Someone breathes fumes, from someone the smell of spirits,
In the hands of newspapers football, or a collection of poems,
People without home and dogs, for many there is no difference,
They squeeze their tails, divided it into a special lunch.
And they usually kill them not the cold of winter,
Cold passers -by past, the cold of an indifferent crowd,
And again, the music is somewhere not far ahead,
Sets of musical stories, on the transitions of the path,
Where the soul took not a lot of pure light,
For these lines, and for the complete verse as a result,
Through the tunnels in the gamut of frescoes and narrow light,
Underground streets, where subscribers are not available,
The world where everything is so bright, it becomes ordinary,
You do not notice this until it concerns personally,
Each station is here, remembers parting and meeting,
All bouquets of flowers, explosions, victim terrorist attacks.
Where are the scandals scandals, where is a quiet whisper,
This is not Moscow at all, it is an underground city,
The heart was sunk minor, minutes stopped,
All this vanity enveloped the desire of the judges.
Here everyone is trying to build a personality,
It is not important a genius, or a regular tramp,
I rise up between the walls by excavator,
I hasten to break out of these underground veins,
And something in the memory remains, it is far from clear,
On the street with large flakes, snow, oh my God, how nice ...