Lyrics РисБо - Дирижер
Views
29
0 people consider the lyrics to be true
0 people consider the lyrics of the song incorrect
The lyrics of the song are provided for your reference РисБо - Дирижер, and also a translation of a song with a video or clip.
Город наушник из уха вынет,
даст послушать, чтобы я насладился игрой:
Там заводов трубы шумят духовые
Мне противно.
По винилу асфальта скольжу я иглой,
Производства Советского Союза.
В этой оркестровой яме инструментов заюзанных,
В этой куче
Я нахожу ответы на самое сокровенное, на то, что так мучает.
Я буду врать тебе в три короба,
Только послушай, мою музыку,
И меня выпусти, город, а?
Ведь твои узы, как
Вечность.
Музы калечат.
Музыка лечит.
Здесь люди ходят, как по струнам
По ним сверху перебирает рука.
Скажите, выйти мне как?
Где здесь лестница в небо из Шоу Трумана?
Люди бьются головой об стену,
Настукивая ритм.
А ты, дальше кивая, ври там
О нерушимости системы.
Здесь
Береженого бог не бережет.
Неужели счастья мы лишены?
Выход есть:
Ты либо сам дирижер,
Либо просто жди тишины.
The city will take out the earpiece from the ear,
will listen to me enjoy the game:
There pipe factories rustle brass
I'm grossed out.
On vinyl asphalt I slide a needle
Produced by the Soviet Union.
In this orchestra pit of instruments,
In this pile
I find the answers to the innermost, the fact that so tormented.
I will lie to you in three boxes
Just listen to my music,
And let me out, city, huh?
After all, your bonds are like
Eternity.
Muses mutilate.
Music heals.
Here, people walk like strings
On top of them hand over.
Tell me how to get out?
Where is the stairway to heaven from the Truman Show?
People beat their heads against the wall,
Tapping the rhythm.
And you, further nodding, lie there
About the inviolability of the system.
Here
God does not take care of himself.
Are we really deprived of happiness?
There is an exit:
You are either the conductor himself,
Or just wait for silence.
will listen to me enjoy the game:
There pipe factories rustle brass
I'm grossed out.
On vinyl asphalt I slide a needle
Produced by the Soviet Union.
In this orchestra pit of instruments,
In this pile
I find the answers to the innermost, the fact that so tormented.
I will lie to you in three boxes
Just listen to my music,
And let me out, city, huh?
After all, your bonds are like
Eternity.
Muses mutilate.
Music heals.
Here, people walk like strings
On top of them hand over.
Tell me how to get out?
Where is the stairway to heaven from the Truman Show?
People beat their heads against the wall,
Tapping the rhythm.
And you, further nodding, lie there
About the inviolability of the system.
Here
God does not take care of himself.
Are we really deprived of happiness?
There is an exit:
You are either the conductor himself,
Or just wait for silence.