Lyrics Сергей Назаров - Все электрички
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На перекрёстке Тверской и Невского
Стихи и музыка – Сергей Назаров
Кто виноват в том, что все наши песни либо в память о ком-то, либо чтобы забыть себя,
Кто виноват? Нескромный вопрос, да спросить-то не с кого.
Рок-н-ролл работа до сотого пота, и блажен всякий тот, кто рискнул заработать
Себе на хлеб на перекрестке Тверской и Невского.
Бесполезные руки в карманах пальто, в рюкзаке за спиной хлам,
И озябшие пальцы с грифом давно не в ладах,
И заманчиво вкусен гитары желток, запеченный в скорлупке чехла,
Но если ты хочешь птенцов, голодай.
С перепою в переходах переборами с перекурами пели хорами,
К нам весна приходила с перебоями, но мы верили, и нам вторили
Норд-ост, зюйд-вест, хроническая тяга к перемене мест,
Ты помолись за меня и поставь свечу за то чтоб все электрички везли меня туда, куда я хочу,
Пусть все электрички везут меня туда, куда я хочу.
Не надо быть Грефом, чтоб сосчитать по пальцам всех тех, кто умел летать,
Их иконы на каждом заборе рисуют те,
Кто растил крылья и падал в пыль, пока однажды не понял где сказка, где быль,
И высокой звезды семафор различил в суете.
Где сознание расширяется к ночи пропорционально зрачкам, а по краям
Не видно ни зги, мы лежим в темноте,
На одном краю сигареты огонь, на другом краю я,
И хочется встать с той ноги, да ноги уже не те.
Раз ступенька, два ступенька, вот и лестнице к переносице полумесяца,
Лишь бы не было на трассе гололедицы, скатертью дальний путь стелется.
Норд-ост, зюйд-вест, хроническая тяга к перемене мест,
Ты помолись за меня и поставь свечу за то чтоб все электрички везли меня туда, куда я хочу,
Пусть все электрички везут меня туда, куда я хочу,
Пусть все электрички везут меня туда, куда я хочу.
© tutzebranet
At the intersection of Tverskaya and Nevsky
Poems and music - Sergey Nazarov
Who is to blame for the fact that all of our songs either in memory of someone, or to forget themselves,
Who is guilty? Immodest question, but there is nobody to ask.
Rock-n-roll work up to the hundredth sweat, and blessed is everyone who ventured to earn
Themselves to bread at the crossroads of Tverskaya and Nevsky.
Useless hands in pockets of a coat, in a backpack behind a back trash,
And the frozen fingers with the neck are long gone,
And temptingly tasty guitar yolk, baked in a shell case,
But if you want chicks, fast.
With the drunkenness in the transitions, bribes with cigarettes were sung by choirs,
Spring came to us with interruptions, but we believed, and we were echoed
Nord-Ost, south-west, chronic craving for change of places,
You pray for me and put a candle for all the electric trains to take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want to go.
It is not necessary to be Gref to count on the fingers of all those who could fly,
Their icons on each fence draw those,
Who raised his wings and fell into the dust, until one day he realized where the fairy tale, where the past,
And the semaphore distinguished the high star in fuss.
Where the consciousness expands towards the night in proportion to the pupils, and at the edges
We can not see anything, we lie in the dark,
On one edge of the cigarette is a fire, on the other side I,
Also it would be desirable to rise with that leg or foot, yes legs or foots any more those.
Once a step, two steps, here and stairs to the bridge of the crescent,
If only there was not ice on the track, a long distance travels along the tablecloth.
Nord-Ost, south-west, chronic craving for change of places,
You pray for me and put a candle for all the electric trains to take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want to go.
© tutzebranet
Poems and music - Sergey Nazarov
Who is to blame for the fact that all of our songs either in memory of someone, or to forget themselves,
Who is guilty? Immodest question, but there is nobody to ask.
Rock-n-roll work up to the hundredth sweat, and blessed is everyone who ventured to earn
Themselves to bread at the crossroads of Tverskaya and Nevsky.
Useless hands in pockets of a coat, in a backpack behind a back trash,
And the frozen fingers with the neck are long gone,
And temptingly tasty guitar yolk, baked in a shell case,
But if you want chicks, fast.
With the drunkenness in the transitions, bribes with cigarettes were sung by choirs,
Spring came to us with interruptions, but we believed, and we were echoed
Nord-Ost, south-west, chronic craving for change of places,
You pray for me and put a candle for all the electric trains to take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want to go.
It is not necessary to be Gref to count on the fingers of all those who could fly,
Their icons on each fence draw those,
Who raised his wings and fell into the dust, until one day he realized where the fairy tale, where the past,
And the semaphore distinguished the high star in fuss.
Where the consciousness expands towards the night in proportion to the pupils, and at the edges
We can not see anything, we lie in the dark,
On one edge of the cigarette is a fire, on the other side I,
Also it would be desirable to rise with that leg or foot, yes legs or foots any more those.
Once a step, two steps, here and stairs to the bridge of the crescent,
If only there was not ice on the track, a long distance travels along the tablecloth.
Nord-Ost, south-west, chronic craving for change of places,
You pray for me and put a candle for all the electric trains to take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want,
Let all the electric trains take me wherever I want to go.
© tutzebranet