She doesn't pick up the phone from me, why the *** are you so cocky?The urine splashed from the cup, a crumpled psyche like a fragile viscoseLike this ***ing forehead from a bad mouthThe swearing flies, the unknown pornography takes off the kicksFrom St. Petersburg to Oryol to the mouth and spitsI chewed candies from the grave in the ground, the boots are fakeThe icons of the gods are set, the ex-wife writesSliva, you're done, it's half past threeWhy the *** don't you sleep? It's half past threeWe carry a friend to the village, he doesn't want to live in a bath anymoreThe minstrel is mixed with warm water, the old woman's *** is drippingThe triple-*** mafia was playing in my communal apartmentThe anger is polluted in the old toiletI want to take her to St. Petersburg, Russia, springThe wind is Baltic, he's eating, you're a ***ing bombIt's damp and smells like *** here, but you remember the main thingYou can't keep happiness, you can't keep it with your lipsIn the forest panic, the man with his feet in the anusKrapalil, Kemal, I looked down at your eyesAre you ready to swallow gondons?But if there will be three wounds in themAlready a year on hormones, here you already have something to touchHello, girlfriend, goodbye, my brotherOvyankin, you're done, they writeWell, sorry, it just happenedWhat came out of the bad mouthPieces of undercooked junkOver the rusty point of the aortaBut even here I am strangled by a toadI get out of overdoses, detoxAnd from detox I dive backEveryone thought I was a saintIn these barracks of gulagI would like to believeBut I put on the last spark of hopeUntil I run out of moneyI will not stop to comfort myself with ***My unclosed gestaltListening during a conversationWords get stuck in the earsBitter, brown, orange, grayIn the head 0 ideasHow convenient it is to always be in the tonic phaseEvery my rainbow dayThis castration through ball bustingAnd then the rewardI'm going to Askin RobbinsIf you're next to herYou have a snortYou have a snortRotten smell on the sixth dayWaste is sour in the kitchenBut you have a substanceThat is more toxic than the south-eastern hordeAnd like a wet sockEverything will be tolerated and absorbedYou were walking on the skinA bag with a white inscriptionWho knew, goodbye, my brotherI will hang the props of your motherFor the rest of Dakota NakatimaI will hang the props of your motherFor the rest of Dakota NakatimaI will hang the props of your motherFor the rest of Dakota Nakatima