Белая

There is nowhere else to run.
Washbasin . Drunken mesh bed .
There is nothing left .
Ray of moonlight through a dirty glass.

Nuts cut whiskey
And doctors tended Dall .
Crumpled streets, bridges
Indifferent white bird sickness.

And when you run in the morning to work
Away from fear , but in the name of three slices of bread ,
You stumble on sleeping in his own vomit ,
But his eyes are open towards the sky.

As the three sisters of Chekhov
Bought three tickets to Moscow
Sang about the edges of the saints
Birds on the high-voltage wires .

Let's clap for one ,
Well, after a take me home .
It's so close ,
Two steps around the corner , where light .

And when you run in the morning to work
Away from fear , but in the name of three slices of bread ,
You stumble on sleeping in his own vomit ,
But his eyes are open towards the sky.

What the white mountain ...
That is not the Alps not Pamirs , the clouds country .
What a dark pond ?
That is not the Volga and Don - see for yourself then .

How will two two ? - Will be cool.
Only lacks three rubles .
And what will end the winter ?
As usual it will drive spring.

And when you run in the morning to work
Away from fear , but in the name of three slices of bread ,
You stumble on sleeping in his own vomit ,
But his eyes only see the beautiful sky.

And when you run in the morning to work
Away from fear , but in the name of three slices of bread ,
You stumble on sleeping in his own vomit ,
But his eyes are open towards the sky.