Текст песни Саша Кладбище - Френсису несколько лет за двадцать

Francis several years in twenty,
he is cute and always drunk.
He loves to dress with a needle,
yearns to go overseas.
Francis knows nothing of anything:
girls, poker and alcohol ...
Francis is in the hospital: nedomoganie, shortness of breath, pain.
The doctor evaluates the skin color, measures the pulse on the wrist, listens to the lungs, the heart too, looks at the nails and squirrels. The doctor sighs: "What a pity!" Francis is clear, he is not a fool, in general, he did not last long - there is either syphilis, or cancer.
Three months, maybe five - no more. If at sea - maybe six. Soon he will have to work hard or eat something. Francis nods, takes a piece of paper with a finely written disaster. Doctor behind the door sighs hard - sorry patient, so young!
That's the beginning of everyday drama. Only after paying for the visit to the doctor, Francis with a smile comes to my mother: "Mom, I want to see the world. I got bored with the luster of the city, I would go to Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal ... Mom, you remember, I was dreaming about the travels as a kid. "
Mommy gray, sighed sideways, looks at Francis through the lorgnette: "Darling, of course, everything is in order, well, go, why not! I'll pray every day, Francis, my beloved son, do not forget to write to me from there and come home soon. "
Having promised the old mother of letters to write many, many years, Francis takes the bag with things and takes a ticket to the ship. Do not let my mother recognize grief, Francis thinks, as she climbs aboard.
Time is running out. A ship in the sea, overhead a shroud of rain.
Over the ocean - forever summer. To avoid the hassles of the world, Francis takes his home somewhere, where the sound of the surf and the sea breeze. Here, wiping his temples from moisture, sitting on the veranda at the desk-bureau, he takes out a blank sheet of paper, also an inkwell and a pen. Attacks of pain were twisted again. At night, you see, he will not fall asleep at all. "Mother, hello. Is she alive? Healthy? I am - as usual - happy with everything. "
At night, in pain, he can not sleep. Francis, having thrown a robe, gets up, again drinks water - and writes letters, writes for many years ahead. About travel, mountains, countries, encounters, separations and cities, the taste of milk, the fragrance of saffron ... Simply and fun. As always.
My mother, reading letters, crying, tears flowing through the white sheets: "Francis, dear, my beloved boy, how good that you are happy there." He's been addicted to injections for a long time, it's a hell of a pain to leave the bed. But every day - ten letters, ten stories for five weeks. The handwriting is uneven - from the terrible pain: "Mom, forgive me, we're shaking on the way!" Letters must be finished with a joke; "I married again almost here!"
On the shore of the ocean, waves catch the current monsoon from heaven. Francis will not be hurt anymore, Francis looks at his last dream, wrapped in a shroud, dressed in a robe ... There is a smell of sandalwood behind him. The local priest reads the coffin quietly parting words in a different world.
Swarthy servant-Asian on Wednesdays, also on Fridays at two o'clock carries mail envelopes with delirium, hundreds of stories from the dead man. And a year later - there's no escape, old age is not a joy, as they say, - the mother died, took her heart.
Years go by. For years, letters have been sailing from across the ocean, as if hope is still alive.
In the bag carries the postman regularly
from nobody to anybody a word.