Текст песни Тимур Шаов - Конец эпохи романтизма

The mysterious moon sews a pattern on the ocean fabric,

So one poet wrote, but this is nonsense and nonsense.

The moon is a satellite, just a ball. What is there mysterious - stones?

There is no tissue in the ocean, but there is salt water.

You can't take us to the arap, to beauty, to romanticism,

The moon is a ball, nitrogen is gas, and zero to zero equals zero.

And feelings are just a current in the brain, an electrical impulse, galvanism,

This is how an electron will slip through (fiit) - "Onegin, oh, I love you."

A rational person - he sees the essence of things, nature,

The romantic flutters his wings - love, Juliet, the Garden of Eden.

The pragmatist sees everything as it is - a goat, a flirtatious fool,

Anyway, what is love in this rational view?

Here's what:

Here the male suddenly smelled a creature of the opposite sex,

His testosterone is already gurgling,

And the presence in the blood of half a ppm of ethanol

Disinhibits the brain and removes all taboos.

He has hyperhidrosis, she has tachycardia,

Oxytocin goes into the blood, the excitability has increased.

Dopamine, serotonin cause euphoria

Blood is deposited in the corpora cavernosa.

The copulation process is quite trivial,

Neurohumoral surge, lust, so to speak.

Then there is a series of frictions, "oh my god", the final chord,

Refractoriness and reproach like "and kiss?"

By the way, what is a kiss so to speak from the position of Darwinism -

Short contact with the red border of the lips.

And there is herpes, streptococcus, no romanticism,

Here is all your love for you, excuse what is wrong.

Love, love, romance is chemistry, brother, mathematics.

July day, terrace, ivy, the colonnade whitens in the shade,

Some fruits and olives, a jug of cold wine.

Here he paints a small portrait of the great romantic Leonardo,

Donna Lisa Gherardina's back felt a little numb.

Yes, here is the Gioconda ideal. She is divine in abundance.

What color, semitones, sfumato - he loved it.

But my eyes are slightly rolling out, it seems to me that there is a thyroid gland,

Swelling of the neck, nervous mouth, she needs to drink mercazolil.

The Rubens have Venus of the second degree of obesity,

Glazunov's character, on the other hand, is thin and haggard.

Tuberculosis, or maybe typhus, well, you can see that there is no salvation

In everything, in everything, an inquiring eye will find a flaw, stick a piston.

Or here is a concert hall, Frederic Chopin, "Nocturnes",

All attention is full - this is the plot, here is the refrain.

They don’t shout, they don’t eat popcorn, what can I say - they are cultured people.

Chopin heartily "Ah, Chopin ..." And what about Chopin?

And take the bitch and put it in notes,

Crack it up, roll it out.

Take a walk through all these beauties with a calculator

Everything is clear - everything is boring, just like a puppy barking.

F minor tetrachord is not new in world culture,

Here is the introductory seventh chord, there is a slegonets triplet.

Exit - in B-flat minor, then the sequence in the center

I transposed the refrain, and the lamtsa-dritsa-gop-tsatsa.

Among the writing lads, the darkness of the same acrobats,

Franz Liszt wrote Sonata in B minor for two years.

And the information in it is only a couple of megabytes,

“This is just nonsense,” every programmer will say.

Ah, music, romance is physics, brother, mathematics.

Here is a young growth with the grip of a Roman ram,

And we, amusing Byrons, are given advice: "Good tryndet."

This is a humanistic message - they send us, but humanely,

We could have slashed with a saber, we scold the youth in vain.

How does the tectonic process change generations,

And our worthless romanticism may not be burnt to the ground.

But generations are coming, who don't give a damn about it,

And deity and inspiration, and blah-blah-blah-blah and all the works.

And deity and inspiration, and blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.