I want to admit: Mom, we are Bandits,
And soaked from hair to shoes
On stolen samples, with drive echoes in sound,
With a dream on both pockets, with A4 sheets in a bag.
I will go until the battery runs out
In my heart I have: Mother, girlfriend, boys from a dozen,
In whom I am sure in the evening we will cross at the horizontal bars,
Good health, who cares about me for twenty.
How many years have passed, a stronger rod
For a long time not children, but the same principles bask in the staircase,
Coarse, stale, moderately restrained,
From the city - urban, it means pampering fate.
Text on the right knee, minimum close,
Until morning on Skype for life, now coffee is like a shot,
You are as strong as coffee that you drink, and it usually gets cold,
Do you want the truth? We are stones, but inside are empty
