Текст песни Кот Балу - конец прекрасной эпохи

The End of a Beautiful Era. Because the art of poetry requires words,
I—one of the deaf, balding, sullen ambassadors of a second-rate power associated with this one—
not wanting to force my own brain, I, handing myself clothes, go down to the kiosk
for the evening paper. The wind blows the leaves. The dim glow of old light bulbs
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the help of puddles, creates an effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself—I have forgotten that feeling. In these sad lands, everything is calculated for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; brides' gowns—New Year's white, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow-skinned jackets and dirt as numerous as alkalis; puritanical morals. Linen. And in the hands of the violinists are wooden hot water bottles. This land is motionless. Imagining the sheer volume of cast iron and lead, you shake your head in amazement, remembering the former power of bayonets and Cossack whips.
But eagles perch like magnets on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs are held together here
by bolts and nuts. Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
muteness forces us, as it were, to create our own labels and cash registers. And space juts out like a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables.
The rooster heeds the chimes. Living in an era of achievements, with an elevated character,
is, unfortunately, difficult. Lifting a beauty's dress, you see what you were looking for, not new marvelous divas. And it's not that Lobachevsky is being strictly observed here, but the expanded world must contract somewhere, and here—here—is the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
or the five-sixths of the remaining parts of the world are too far away. Or some good fairy
is casting a spell over me, but I can't escape from here. I pour myself a Cahors wine—I can't shout for the servant—
and scratch my cat... Either a bullet to the temple, as if a finger had struck the wrong spot,
or to yank me out across the sea as a new Christ. And how can one not confuse, in a drunken state, stunned by the cold,
a locomotive with a ship—one still won't burn with shame: like a boat on the water, a locomotive wheel leaves no trace on the rails.
What are they writing in the newspapers in the "From the Courtroom" section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here, the average person will see through tin-rimmed glasses
a man lying face down against a brick wall; but he's not sleeping. For one has every right to disdain the dome of dreams
pierced with holes. The keenness of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their collective blindness of distinguishing those who fell from their cradles from those who had fallen.
The white-eyed Chud refuse to look beyond death. It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there's no one to turn the table with,
to hold you accountable, Rurik. The keenness of these times is a keenness for things that are dead ends.
It's not fitting to wade through the trees, but to spit on the wall. And not to wake the prince, but the dinosaur.
For the last line, ah, you can't pluck a feather from a bird. For the innocent head of all affairs, what's the point of waiting for an axe
and green laurels?