ДДТ - Прогулка. Питер
текст песни

...Peter,
I have the habitual walking legs
And an old sweater.
Peter,
My body escaped from the den,
Sliding off the sofa,
Listen like a summer garden grille
Rigs in the wind.
Peter,
Even the kings here once got up early,
Wandering at the head of the parade.
Peter,
I'm tired of the stupid television screen -
Leningrad, his mother, point.ru
Peter,
Here in the morning the evening is coming.
Caramel dome of the Savior,
The colors of my mattress
Reflect
Cute to the heart cozy ideas about paradise,
But I have nothing to die.
Not us, Peter chooses us,
The rest live in another city,
Wandering
In a multi -storey, thousand -eyed herds,
With the fragments of Petrov Stone frozen in the kidneys.
I was once there and I remember
How to balance between perfumes and a stench,
But I don't believe Libra.

Peter,
Marse field,
Lenenergo, white dreams without salt.
Peter,
Claller-confectioner,
Pouring callous slices of happiness
In hungry mouths.
The eternal fire has shadows
Frozen hands warm.
Disheveled and rebellious homeless people,
Reflecting sounds
They kneel
And they rip off their stomachs.

Banzai, Peter!
On the pedestal Jupiter.
Suvorov is a tear of the child,
Welded to the sword.
Children's games have become
Coppies of blood and steel.
Faithful servants of the empire
Even the homeland on the shoulder!
"The music is very beneficial,
Especially the drum
Helps to walk in construction. "
On the march and under the escort
Raises the spirit
This lifting crane.

Peter,
The ligature of monarchical letters,
Still continues to be.
Sine me de me, without me, Bitter,
Is it worth talking?
Peter,
An old sick tutor
Iron bad and violent, underdeveloped brains,
That in a few years
stop urinating in the entrances
And perform at the writer's congresses,
Messengers of the steppes and fogs
Asians harsh zgi.

Peter,
Neva with ash rags of ice,
Which a pile of old letters
Falls in the dark views of passers -by.
The proximity of severe death and ice water
Make us younger.
I am on the Trinity Bridge - I always grow.
Peter -
Dogs, crows, temples.
Proproding from BG to Lama.
On an advertising shield with cocoa,
Some kind of young maiden
With bananas and irons.
The bourgeois queen
It states ours
There is a physical ugliness with you.

Peter,
And somewhere overseas countries bloom.
Stagnant African Americans,
In the arms of the nirvana,
On Hollywood Avenue
Only one require an enlarged menu.
And we are always there assholes,
We are the sad reflection of these countries,
We are Hamlet's shadow flowing from the wound,
We are the defeat of any European idea,
You crawl out on Broadway, and the thought in the head:
"Idea?!"
We heard about political correctness,
But what is allowed to Jupiter,
Not allowed by the bull.
Olukhs of sealing buildings
In concrete juice
Wiping their legs with rapture
About the rusty facade of the city -
Rastrellievskoye ku-ka-ra-ku.

Peter -
End of nature,
Bursts of cool freedom,
Miscarriages and childbirth,
Gorky in a child of cars.
Century on the shoulders.
Socialist realism is a cast -iron, empty jug,
Socialist realism - ashes in tombstones,
Pictures like "Big ear on Seliger",
Players like "steelmark" -
These are dusty in the squares
Antique pioneers
Revolutionary fumes.

Peter,
Not drying my liter.
Drinking here is always beautiful.
Romanticism, ar-deco, baroque.
Rushing a classic perspective
An alternative to underground rock.
Drank Herzen and Dostoevsky,
Historical overdrive,
How Rasputin vomit on Nevsky,
Vishing: "Rock'n'Roll is life!".

Peter,
Clarifies the accident of your existence.
Peter is existential
And metaphysical freedom.
And if it’s easier -
Nobody needs hell here,
Your accordion does not fit
In his symphonic score.
This horse,
In a space raped by architecture,
Eats you for dinner.
And therefore, there is no longer there