ЗВОНТЬЯ - По-турецки
текст песни

I will sit out in Turkish on the floor out of habit
Cigarettes, matches, mug and guitar
It did not work out to hang himself. Yes, I'm strong, God!
Will praise who will hear, and maybe he will give a face
And I have been one for a long time: what's into battle, what's on the knees
I am the winner of fear, but defeated by laziness
Bury me. And, by the way, no, no!
I'll play quietly, while at least someone is nearby
Such a riddle: no sense, no decency
After all, everything seems to be in order, but I'm like the third extra
Eyes at a wet place, neither sleeping nor leave
At least spread icons, otherwise all the walls are in the blood
Yes, I'm a bright angel! Just think, crashed!
I don’t need much: the whole world and the meaning of life!
I am still a guide (shut your ears, brothers)
I see souls in faces, and there is dark to misfortune
Show my wings! And, by the way, already fucked up!
The sky is dusting below, upstairs for too long
Who fought, who tried - count on the fingers
Well, what are you crying, the sun? You know, I will not give up!
There was a Jewish boy, he also heard the sky
So you crucified him. What should I do now?
No way the soul does not warm the empty lamp of fairy tales
I'm an adult, I don't need it! Although, it will do! Leave it!
Stretched to the limit the rope of my freedom
It’s time to cut off for a long time, but where will I get the roots?
There is nothing to hold on to, then nothing holds
It is time, you see, to get in the attic of hope
I build my next bridge through the river
To burn it forever. So it is necessary if they ask
Although, of course, it is unlikely. who cares?
Here everyone seems to be nearby, but far immense
Squeeze a fist, there is empty. no one awaits the door
Though Buddha, even though Jesus, so painful to believe today
My torn handwriting crawls along the acute edge of the world
Let your eyes closed, I will not fall asleep at night
Sell me patience! And, by the way, it's too late!
Eh, I would be a poet: on a staff, but to the stars!
But there are no blue wagons on tram rails,
But there is a lot of space for barefoot idiots
Staging from impotence. I forgot about dinner again
My guide in life confused the wagons
And drags aimlessly empty commodity train
Thank you, good switchman: the path from the depot and to the abyss
To the touch past the porch, but if only not to the well
We drink it all, walk swearing, but we bow to the belt
I, turning my soul, shouted, then cried
And it would be better if out of habit sat in Turkish on the floor