I always have time trouble as the notebook says,
If the break then most likely bankrupt.
For dinner again entrecote while there is a cat on antrisoli
There is work if the workers from the mountains have not yet come.
Until I grow a hump, the coffin won't straighten me
And you won't care about my snotty poetry.
You are not a playboy, rather a plebeian and prove the opposite,
Foaming at the mouth, your truth is disgusting to me
Before the records in the gramophone, now the records in the mouth,
Plasticine in the palms, now plasticine in the bong
After all, there is no thought that God forbids you,
And to old age, the claim that he did not save the type.
And the amulet that hangs like a pebble on the neck,
Rubs a wide trench with his chain,
Even a seamstress in a white coat does not mend it,
Whether you are at least in a hut or in a hospital room.
The 99th bus rolls me from the center to work
Where the zebra salary consists of black and white stripes.
By retirement, he may turn to me like a skunk,
It's hard to believe that we will ever get to her.
In the world of obscurantism and arrogance, beasts in the bosses,
Disasters and rudeness, the consequences of the rebels,
It's easier to be a cannibal than a vegetarian
Why are you pointing your finger at me in the UkrF?
I will remain a wanderer, roaming in space
Lather decadence, decades like prominences,
Tuberculosis in the tube, where are my white slates?
Slando dot ru, okay, I'm lying, not in the tube, but in the lungs of the asshole.
And the urban, as it was, and remains not cleaned
On TV, the same Vanya Urgant is grinning at us,
Not relatives are waiting at home, but rather Pasha Durov,
There are those who fatten while someone plows like a fool.
And the quintessential injection for society,
It successfully stretches through the arteries to the heart,
Canabioids with mother's milk are passed on to babies
If, after the lines, you do not think about it, choking with a towel.
Metaphors in amphora, methamphetamine fable,
I rush at traffic lights, as if by the lips of prasphor,
And the taste of my life, as it was and remains old,
And the tears that flow, they make salty dough from it,
There is no place like you here, just like in the parking lot,
Okay, everything, the minus ends, I have a track in a gift box.
