Текст песни Аля Кудряшева - Три, два, один - 05 - Двадцать пёрышек за плечами...

Twenty feathers behind your shoulders - flew around, it's time to shed. I walk, move the keys, people stare at me. Music in your ears, pour a song, the voice melts groovy, it seemed to us so difficult together, but even harder alone. Get in touch with the ether, you hear, you, I love you. The seller from the kefir stall calls me "Camel". “Come,” he says, “dear, choose food for yourself.” If I don’t know myself, then why would I go to him?
The air is blue with a taste of apples, beats with radial perspiration. I live until November, it turns out nothing. I'm good. The player is shuffle. I write poetry on the subway and knit you a gray scarf of acrylic nonsense. The city stretched over me - right, I feel it trembling, I wash down Thursday with Cahors to survive Friday, the days change hastily, the snow is transparent, the rains are wet. I wash down Saturday with beer, Lowenbraun, not huhry.
I breathe cheap tobacco, laughing motionless face. Nothing else, Kudryashova, in general, you are doing well. Soon the session, abroad, if you pass it - you won't pass it, then go and understand, they say, in the morning jogging helps to comprehend the world, after all, you won't pass it - and roll with a sausage, and you won't return the past, so it's better to learn Albanian and don't worry about someone else's garbage. Is it a matter of jumping up, getting up, forgetting about everything altogether, because you are still nineteen, and he is already twenty-seven, he has a wife and children, he walks his way - why in the whole world do you breathe only with him?
A cat warmed itself on the cornice, I am composing a letter to myself, I am a lump of icy crumb in a choking pipe. Talking is all you can, you still say the wrong thing, so smear the cry on your face, beat your forehead against the monitor. And let’s roll together, a cold emptiness awaits, you just don’t want to be happy just like that. Just feel with the ileal string that the wall is no longer scary, just squeeze your palms in the morning, and groan with joy. No, you will, until dawn, exasperating your family, take out kilometers of delirium in an overheated ICQ. And dawn on the brains - a club, all roads lead to Rome. "Well, good night, darling. So we'll talk tomorrow."
And cars devour asphalt, as fire eats firewood, the twenty-first leaf is a crane that has landed on the palm. I'm good, even very good, only stupid as a brick. Since you have chosen me among others - so if you please bear with me now. I chose, I chose, and, by the way, I didn't scold my fate.
We can, if we want to be happy. I give a tooth.