Текст песни Виктор Тетерев - По мотивам 13 карт

In a filthy apartment, there are eight of us pals;
Don't even ask how it came to be.
I remember we gathered to play a few hands of cards,
And decided to ponder what the future might hold.

Dante shouted that Krishna would be the ultimate judge;
His high forehead was marked with a sacred dot.
The apartment is spacious—there’s room enough for everyone;
This isn't a cult, mind you, just a commune of working men.

We all knew his friends, and we kept our distance;
Believe me, chanting mantras to Krishna for hours on end
Is something not everyone can stomach; so, together with the guys,
We ceremoniously told Dante to go fuck himself.

Kuromaku sighed and took another swig of vodka,
Staring out the window with a glassy, ​​vacant gaze.
He’d recently been booted from the election ballot—
Scrubbed from the lists, he was no longer a candidate.

He spent his days boozing and singing songs
About the "bright era" of the bygone Soviet days.
"Learning is light!" he’d declare, and—clutching
A faceted glass—he’d simply drink the hours away.

But there’s no place for honest men in Parliament,
So our Kuromaku took out five different loans.
He divorced his wife, and now he greets each new day
By recounting that same old story.

His drinking buddy had done eight years in the slammer,
Though we never quite figured out what the charges were.
His name was Pik—pronounced, they say, in the style
Of that old prison riddle about the men and the chairs.

A rough character—I heard he’d gone straight,
Quit the crime game... then started drinking, and the money ran out.
Now he lives with us, drinks, and sits there endlessly brooding—
Convinced that this life of ours won't pass without leaving a mark.

Felix survived a military conflict,
And now he suffers from the horror of it all—prone to panic attacks.
He’s constantly popping pills, always eager to "help" everyone out—
Though all that comes out is a hysterical, broken laugh.

You can't hide from the night—not even if you spend your whole life
Numbed out on heavy meds; you still can't save your life.
He wears a smile on his face, but his problems are deadly serious—
Truly. Serious

An umbrella lived with us, but he went and hanged himself—
Right beneath the poster that reads, "The Battle Rages On."
He’d sit by the radiator under the stairs, silent and still,
And spend his days whispering—though not to himself.

They say he was kind, open-hearted, and sweet—
Except he was terrified to ever step outside.
Dante would talk to him about Krishna and Shiva,
But it didn't help; consumed by his fears, he finally snapped.

Varu, the orphan, bullies everyone around;
He keeps a sharpened shiv tucked inside his baggy pants.
I remember the time he got into a fight with Peak—
And how Varu burst into tears at the mere thought of his mother.

He’d hurl insults at everyone, accusing them of betrayal—
Yet the only ones who ever betrayed *him* were his parents.
I hope someday he manages to work through it all,
But his constant tormenting is fucking unbearable.

Romeo the Romantic is drowning in child support payments,
Hooking up with every slut in the courtyard.
It was so painful for them to accept that it was all a lie—
That there’d be no wedding, no romantic getaways down south.

Now he runs from court to court, dodging his obligations—
With no purpose, no money, and not even any love.
And just recently, a test result crossed out his entire future—
Fucking HIV-positive. Just go die.

In this filthy apartment,
There are eight of us buddies living together.
I haven't mentioned myself yet—but fuck it, who cares?
As for our landlord? Well, he’s regressed back to childhood—
He actually thinks we’re fucking clones straight out of a cartoon.