Lyrics Яшка Казанова - Елена Морозова - Фаза 4

women are frying. men are pathetic.
children are welcome. I'll soon be thirty.
I look, with my eyes on my fur hat,
in the blue austere sky.

I'll soon be thirty. such a figure
can not be omitted. summing up,
I notice: problems with the cycle -
whether the hormones are queer, or

simple fatigue; Moscow is getting fat -
on the map Izhevsk closed;
with a smart buttercup in the conservatory
growing up, bringing up the feeling of the rear

up to the norm; inside digging,
I began to see a piece of the universe
and understand what to cut your finger -
much more daring than cutting veins,

stained tiles. I'll soon be thirty.
three zero. in my favor the steep hips.
that's just to get used to swearing
and you can immediately give birth to a child.
...
I like being a woman: losing weight,
to wear a heel, to be frightened of insects.
I like being a boy: to fuck
from female fingers, even unfamiliar -
in a trolley, subway or taxi.
I like the man to be: spend
wallet money, time and effort
on a new confused dress
me-a woman. to shave a mustache, shave
face and head, put on tight jeans.
I like being a girl: a whim
splash out on the boy - go to bed,
as if frightened. smudge
knees in abrasions. smoke stealthily "java",

burn the curtains inadvertently, but
still afraid to appear drunk
at my mother's eyes. and live, laughing.
I like being us: cleverly
write out an unknown ligature
Georgian. drink. drink water next morning.
love you my beloved. protect
you from the discontent of the atmosphere.
decide to give birth to me or not give birth,
and if so, from whom. and a hairdryer
dry the stain on the edge of spring,
to dry all puddles. Do you know? you know ...
...
there are details that always seem to me vulgar:
read their own verses aloud to strangers; come twenty minutes later
the appointed time of the meeting; post in photos of photos with decadent comments;
Consider that collecting bottles is a shame; judge the woman by the volume of her waist;
believe that this risotto can be tried only in Italy;
be sure to talk with me about Tania and
try to inspire your opinion (about the hair, clothes, texts, gestures and ttypp) about her -
to me.

there are details that always seem to me disgusting:
for example - to make a look with a drag and speak with riddles;
require not to bend the page, and use bookmarks;
hide a bottle of gin for the flower pots;
any promotional video to measure Cannes,
while stealing other people's ideas;
try to translate every conversation into money;
To ask: "Well, will you invite for a birthday?"

there are details that I always feel miserable:
to become attached to brands in everything - from the pipe smoking to pajamas;
pull the belly and squeeze into the jacket
two sizes smaller than necessary;
call this "thing" and urinal, and a condom. and its own member, and dildo;
say at the parents' meeting: "my child is indigo!
because he is so impressionable, excitable, because he is such a rebel and badass. "

MDA ... detail, which in the hands of something to take a shame.
Why am I so excited? after mulled wine has not cooled down yet?
because in fact, I do not care - that full face, that from the rear -
just suddenly pulled over.
...
some demon inside presses the little finger "off."
and everything changes at once: from faces to streets.
to similar experiments I'm too used to,
because so skillfully and grouped.

the morning is hardly more trickier than the evening. incidentally
maybe not at the time of day. where there!
the "off" button is pressed. the world is again black and white.
again you can safely tie roses to dates,

turning itself into a tear-off calendar: pictures -
minimal, the paper is yellow, a lot of text.
why not? Well, I tried - enough,
to understand - "off." is serviceable and no longer interesting.

Only the demon inside does not think so, kolupayas
shamelessly in my chips, which means -
he finds a new button, he pulls his finger,
and I again explode and again live differently.
....
women are created for pleasure
(Lord, thank you for that!)
what's the difference, whose battle is there, and where is the army going,
if you take her face with your hands, look straight into your eyes,
and you see - it's not dawn at all, but the morning with the button of the alarm clock
+ the initials of the headmistress of Valentina Ilinichna,
typed on the company letterhead in Times New Roman
with disgusting serifs? of course, behind you behind Ron,
Huge plans, Sikorski and tanks ...
women are invented for pleasure! for baths of milk with blood. for a sudden tango
at a hot plate for a couple of minutes before dinner.
for tastings: cigars, people, emotions, views, drugs of all stripes. besides - on
Pleasures laying the whole meaning of this messy motley, this lace,
strangely not to admit: women are married to women, they do not have sex -
all (!) were created by sculptors of the Order of Hedonists
regardless of ten for them, for fifty or three hundred.

and you - a lump of laziness, if for about twelve years I did not bother to feel the aforesaid.
and send my greetings to my parents - and my mother with her blood clots, spikes, spasms;
and his father - in his newspaper and a bowl of ravioli,
which he, without hesitation, will move.
akkurat before bedtime.
...
I throw a low-key, like a jacket
cadet in the crowd of cadets