Lyrics Эхопрокуренныхсараев - подарок для гроба

The soul does not fly away, the soul is rotting. Sedative clouding, phenobarbital cools down in the boyna. the smell of alcohol raises the nostrils, the red star of terror illuminates this depressed picture. Hoarse voices in my head demand death, whisper the curses of the Third Reich. Out of despair suicide, the house of pain is the world. The sky sowed crosses on earth. In hospitals, pill dust has enveloped the old scum. In coffins rot, In underground laboratories Alcohol-free abortions, children of radioactive habitat. The mortal death and the body of the old man did not know the suffering. without avoidable dependencies on drugs, a stash is a quadratic steam circle. your sore body is adorned with vapors, your sore body is a gift for a coffin.