Lyrics Ложный Сальвадор Дали и Два Тройных - Петр

Written-By - Konstantin Amelyushkin

Our Peter, the burgher son,
Descendant of glorious generations
Carries his load, all alone,
Sings and bends the spirit of moments.
But here's the end of everything,
Our Peter rose in thought and stood still:
Why does he need wine now,
Inherited bath,
Where they sold rot and dust,
Where noise was called thought
Where the blood flowed under the table,
And he sang
About that, about this ...

Peter rolled up his sleeves. I had to wash the dirt off my hands. More precisely with the hands. He rolled up the sleeves to the elbow, so as not to dunk. It seems that my mother taught. Water poured from the tap. Soap, foam. It seems to be clean. But some smell tormented Peter. "Rowan flies, ugh, beads, like the dawn," he sang, fearing himself. Began to remember. “It shouldn’t stink, everything around is sterile. Come on, God bless him, you never know,” he thought and opened the door to the toilet. “Ugh, how disgusting!” He shouted and slammed the door. Ignorance of the fundamentals of science and the arts makes itself known from time to time. He saw nothing. Light flowed from the toilet. The operator changed the parameters of contrast, light and shadow. "But what a stink?" Peter fell silent. It was already getting dark outside the window. What to do? Terzanya million them. What actually torment something? Well, I kicked some dog on the way home. Well, why she scoffed something? Nothing otlezhitsya. And what is he, Peter, now to do? That's what tormented him. “I will go blind!” Said Peter. "No, it does not sound tragic ...", - I thought. "I ...", in confusion, searching for words, Peter looked at his hands. I twisted them, hooked them up, uncoupled them ... "And I have some dirty, ugly hands," he thought to himself. "What about me"? Radio: "Nothing." Peter jumped to his feet, jumped out of his slippers, grabbed a newspaper, jabbed a finger at his photo on the main page. With your dirty finger ... Peter: "A"! Radio: "Such Millions". The image in the photo: "Do not touch me, your hands are dirty." In the photo, the author captures Peter. More precisely, half of Peter. One of the halves of Peter was visible. Left or right ... Peter, more precisely, half of Peter went down the street, where at the same time they blew up the building. How he got into the frame. He did not even remember. Radio: "It is necessary to look around." Peter: "Ttsit. Yes, yes, I have the same dirty hands," - muttered Peter. "Nightmare". He grabbed the small, still grandmother's scissors and began to cut his nails. Then he took the file, sawed it. Stretched one hand. I looked. "Well, it seems to be better. Still need to wash." Hot water, steam and Peter with shiny hands. He has already forgotten about the photo - admiring his hands. More precisely half of their hands. The other half remained somewhere else. It claimed the photo in the newspaper. Peter saw and felt them all. But in the category of essence only half was present. The agony continued. Tomorrow threatened with a finger, today sucked juices, and yesterday ... And was it? The chair was holding Peter. It was getting dark. Still. Still.