Текст песни Михаил Щербаков - Исповедь не в моде

MILESTONES OF PHALILISM

Confession is not in vogue. Confused roads. Am F7 E7 Am
We take out the catalogs. We compose a treatise. Am F7 E7 Am
There, we cut the wings, we'll tie up our legs, Dm Am
Let's sum up the small expenses. Am F7 E7 Am
What's wrong with that? You are the head of the office, F E A7 Dm
Your talent oozes in the heads of all stripes, Am E7 Am
And in your reports there are more allegories, Dm Am
Than on the Black Sea drowning people. F7 E7 Am
On the watermelon crust, stand, do not slip, A7 Dm
It depends on the turn of the path! G C
Then you will inevitably become a fatalist F A7 Dm
In the image of his own destiny. Am E7 Am

Here is your apartment, here is your salary.
The cover of the "diplomat", a drunk glass.
The former delight is now bitter,
The image of the adversary somewhat faded.
What's wrong with that? You are the director of the club,
You make progress, plans are rich -
True, with unaccustomed it is possible to cut an oak,
If, say rudely, in some way to blame.
And when various villainies were discovered,
All your neighbors are deaf from the firing -
Oh, how you pleased all your family
For adultery of one's own destiny!

Mother-in-law - deputy minister, uncle - long-liver, ----> Hm
And you on the tunic - birochku with the price.
The former sobering-up station,
Former winner, now - Negro.
What's wrong with that? You - the cashier in the bath,
Pale ink, wet sheets.
There is not enough bribery against vegetation,
The account of your diligence is known only by you.
Soon golden curls fly around!
Small people, stone foreheads ...
Svyato you keep your dreams past,
Like a tip of his own fate.

Here is your shortness of breath, here are your heart attacks.
Rigid reserved seats, terrible debts.
Under the table are dusted torn cards.
Former standards are now short.
What's wrong with that? You are a servant in the morgue,
Thin soles have erased on a bend,
And behind the turn of that watermelon peel
Even the eye of the sharp can not be found already.
Last year's wind, autumn and winter ...
You would grab the moon sickles from the sky,
But the ways of the Lord are inscrutable -
You rushed past your own destiny.