Текст песни Псой Короленко и Алена Аленкова - Черный человек из Люблино

My friend, my friend,
 I am very, very sick.
 I do not know where this pain.
 Whether the wind whistles
 Over the empty and deserted field ,
 Eh , how grove in September ,
 Showers brains alcohol.
 
 My head waving ears,
 As the wings of a bird.
 Her legs around his neck
 Looms large could not stand .
 Black man
 Black, black,
 black man
 On the bed with me sits ,
 black man
 Sleep keeps me up all night.
 
 black man
 Drives a finger on the vile book
 And nasal me,
 As over the dead monk ,
 Reads my life
 Some scoundrel and profligate ,
 Surges per anguish and fear.
 black man
 Black, black !
 
 & quot; Listen, listen -
 He muttered to me -
 The book contains many beautiful
 Thoughts and plans.
 this person
 Resided in the country
 most heinous
 Thunder and charlatans.
 
 In December, in the country
 Snow to clean the devil ,
 And blizzard give birth
 Funny spinning wheel.
 Was a man of the adventurer,
 But the highest
 And the best brands .
 
 He was graceful ,
 To that poet,
 Even with a small ,
 But uhvatistoy strength,
 And some woman ,
 Forty-odd years ,
 Called bad girl
 And his miloyu .
 
 Happiness , - he said -
 There agility of mind and hands.
 All awkward soul
 For accidents always known.
 It's nothing ,
 What a lot of anguish
 bring broken
 And false gestures.
 
 In thunderstorms, storms,
 In worldly styn ,
 Bereavement
 And when you're sad ,
 Smiling and seem simple -
 The highest in the world of art & quot ;.
 
 & quot; black man !
 Do not you dare it!
 You're not in the service
 Vodolazova live .
 What am I up to life
 Scandalous poet.
 Please other
 Read and tell & quot ;.
 
 black man
 He looks straight at me .
 And his eyes are covered
 Blue vomiting -
 As if to tell me
 What I crook and a thief ,
 So shamelessly and brazenly
 Robbed someone.
 . . . . . . . . . . . .
 
 My friend, my friend,
 I am very, very sick.
 I do not know where this pain.
 Whether the wind whistles
 Over the empty and deserted field ,
 Eh , how grove in September ,
 Showers brains alcohol.
 
 Frosty night .
 Quiet quiet intersection.
 I am alone at the window ,
 Neither the guest nor the other forward .
 The whole plain is covered
 Friable and soft lime ,
 And the trees , as horsemen ,
 Gathered in our garden.
 
 Where is crying
 Night ominous bird.
 wooden riders
 Sow kopytlivy knock.
 Here again, the black
 On my chair sets,
 Lifting his top hat
 And carelessly throwing his coat .
 
 & quot; Listen, listen ! -
 He croaks , looking me in the face,
 Himself closer
 And closer clones. -
 I did not see anyone
 of scoundrels
 So unnecessary and stupid
 Insomniacs .
 
 Oh , say, wrong !
 Because now the moon .
 What needs to be more
 Laden with slumber Myrick ?
 Maybe with thick thighs
 Secretly come & quot; it & quot ;,
 And you read
 His dead languid lyrics?
 
 Oh , I love poets !
 Funny people .
 They always find me
 History , the familiar heart -
 How pimply girl students
 long-haired freak
 Talks about worlds
 Genital bleeding languor .
 
 I do not know , I do not remember
 In one village ,
 Maybe in Kaluga,
 Maybe in Ryazan
 there lived a boy
 In a peasant family ,
 yellow-haired ,
 With blue eyes ...
 
 And so he became an adult,
 To that poet,
 Even with a small ,
 But uhvatistoy strength,
 And some woman ,
 Forty-odd years ,
 Called bad girl
 And his miloyu & quot;
 
 & quot; black man !
 You wretched guest.
 It has a long
 Spreads about you & quot ;.
 I am furious, furious ,
 And flying my cane
 Straight to face him,
 In the nose ...
 . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 
 ... A month has died,
 The window is blue dawn.
 Oh , the night !
 What are you , night, nakoverkala ?
 I 'm standing in the cylinder .
 Anyone with me not.
 I am alone ...
 And a broken mirror ...