Otto Dix - Мужчина, который не пишет проз
текст песни

Your hands, so cruel,
I worshiped like a guillotine
You raised vices to the rank of art,
And he painted the words with knives of the words.

The castle is ancient, melting the threat -
A man who does not write prose.
He drinks like water, angel tears
A man who does not write prose.

The owner of the dreams of my hungry
You yourself were once part of them
You disappeared in the middle of the water of cold
Not making it clear what happiness means

In his hands will not warm the frozen rose
A man who does not write prose
He drinks like water, angel tears
A man who does not write prose.