Текст песни Миф aka Oxxxymiron - KVRPdrunkdemo

There is a secret code, but no one can remember it, you have to tear your breed away to join the banned society of black cipher from running water, notes, numbers and points, but if it's your choice, choose between the oak and the rack, we live like fish - a joint, in a constant state of coma, familiar confuse us with insects, because we rhyme in our own hive, while on the shark flocks the wolf hordes swarmed, we tried to look for him in the honeycomb, and for the hundredth time they disappeared, and we stayed, and created a system of signs from the remains of the four elements, t you can own this knowledge, but who said that at the right time, and yet this is what you need to apply it, amen, the dynasty min, you gave us writing, now you can leave, do not be sad, you'll go to the wood, I heard, porcelain burns well, the caravan sticks out on the silk road, the sugar head is silent, bricks are to be halved in order to repair the ram from the battering ram - this is please, but it's only too early to download the rights, from affectation - to shamanism, recitative instead of reading, this style is not always authentic, but closer to the atilla than to Byzantium, a textbook article and my chance is to reach the Khantymantiysk, my ideal is ms, rain that drizzles, or a mixture of muezzin and gasoline, foliage with gasoline, the sheets of the stone book are imbued with wondrous power, there is no place for beautiful italics, but crude cuneiform symbols, laughter crazy is stimulus for the simulation of the creative process, as well as the taste of incest and the spirit of the latrine

my tongue, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,
but than with a running start to climb on the blade, you can be useful here
silver dissolved in the abyss, gold was taken away on crosses
and this is what I dreamed of - the stone age of Russian poetry

There is a subterranean passage, but few believe it willingly, only those of the right kind in the soil can open the gates of the world of moldless clay, words, dreams and calluses, everything is allowed here - to create patterns from flocks of jackdaws and soybeans, to speculate on soy, braid in the hair voice and haymaking stripes, completely forget where you, in the confused forces of the house, and comfortably sit, put the pillow under your head, even if life is lost, all the same on the sleepers do not have to lie down, but live, from figs of feces, the voice of the vocal of sand Sand of tendons as a puzzle laid down, in a bag crammed, sewed and drawn in a pattern, they let the sea through the sea, and they forgot to think for themselves, not knowing that the contents were fermented and became the style that we gave the name, we tied three knots on each eyelash, is it not enough that one will dream, and all you have to wake up, touch the hand of stone, moss and fuel oil, you hear the sounds. These ruins call the druids. The plains call the Bedouins. The ice age period. The carved pipe. The forest trail. Corpses of enemies. The phone booth is busy. This mosaic is fragile, like a dried fruit statue, Steel, and rue, words and bark pr soldered to each other by a permutation terms of places does not change the amount

native language, accept condolences, you are sick with all diseases,
but than with a running start to climb on the blade, you can be useful here
silver dissolved in the abyss, gold was taken away on crosses
and this is what I dreamed of - the stone age of Russian poetry