Текст песни Саша Кладбище - Френсису несколько лет за двадцать

Francisu for several years in twenty
He is pretty and always drunk.
Loves with a needle to dress,
It's hard to leave for the ocean.
Francis does not know any boundaries:
Girls, poker and alcohol ...
Francis turns out to be in the hospital: underwater, shortness of breath, pain.
The doctor estimates the skin color, measures the pulse on his wrist, listens to the lungs, the heart, too, looks at the nails and the proteins. Doctor sighs: "What a pity!" Francis is clear, he is not a fool, in general, he was long left for him - there or Syphilis, whether Cancer.
Three months, maybe five - do not more. If the sea is possible, six. Soon he will have to rolling something from pain or there. Francis nods, takes a piece of paper with a finely painted misfortune. Dr. at the door sighs hard - sorry the patient, so young!
Here is the beginning of the everyday drama. Only by paying for a visit to the doctor, Francis with a smile comes to Mom: "Mom, I want to see the world. The gloss of the city is tired of me too, I would be in Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal ... Mom, you remember, I still dreamed about the journey. "
Mom gray, having sighing the furtively, looks at Francis through Lorrow: "Cute, of course, everything is in order, you go, why not! I will pray every day, Francis, Sona beloved, do not forget me to write from there and come back soon. "
By giving a promise of an old letter to writing many, many years, Francis takes a sacrifice with things and the ship takes a ticket. Mother let him not recognize grief, thinks Francis, riding on board.
Time leaves. Ship in the sea, above the head of the shine rain.
Overall - forever summer. To avoid the bustle of the world, Francis myself takes off somewhere where the noise of the surf and the breeze. Here, wiping whiskey from moisture, sowing on the veranda at the desk of the Bureau, it pulls out a blank sheet of paper, also inkwell and feather. The bouts of pain twisted again. At night, see, does not fall asleep at all. "Mother, hello. Alive? Healthy? I - as usual - pleased with all. "
At night, the pain is really not sleeping. Francis, throwing a robe, gets up, drinks water again - and writes letters, writes for many years ahead. About travels, mountains, countries, meetings, separation and cities, the taste of milk, the fragrance of saffron ... just and fun. As always.
Mother, letters reading, crying, tears on white Teach sheets: "Francis, native, my favorite boy, how good you are happy there." He from injections for a long time dependent, hellish pain - leave the bed. But daily - ten letters, ten stories for five weeks. The handwriting is uneven - from pain is terrible: "Mom, forgive me, shakes us on the way!" Letters finish need a joke; "I married almost here again!
On the ocean waves caught the current musson from heaven. Francis will no longer hurt, Francis looks his last dream, in Savan Ukutan, is fascinated in Rob ... smells the sandalie for his back. Local priest reads the coffin quietly farewell to the world of others.
A dark Asian servant on Wednesdays, also on Fridays in two hours wearing envelopes with nonsense, hundreds of stories from the dead man. And a year later, it is not going anywhere, old age is not joy, as they say - the mother died, grabbed the heart.
Years go. For many years in a row, letters float from behind the ocean, as if hope is still alive.
The postman is borne in the bag
From anyone anyone's words.