Lyrics youhate - Мой друг не играет блюз
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The lyrics of the song are provided for your reference youhate - Мой друг не играет блюз, and also a translation of a song with a video or clip.
И как найти единственно верное слово,
Когда ты в доме, где все окна выходят на север?
Герои второсортных драм, штампованных ситкомов
Нам наконец расскажут, зачем мы взрослеем.
Все музыканты перестанут попадать по струнам,
Им с переломанными пальцами играть так сложно.
А мы научимся любить за ледяные скулы,
За красное бельё на самой гладкой белой коже.
Ты снова зря закусываешь губы, посмотри
На подоконник, там цветы, а, значит, мы уходим скоро.
В стране погасших вывесок танцуют до зари.
В стране просторных комнат лишь пустые разговоры.
А почему мой друг не играет блюз?
Он смотрит в календарь, а там вечные вёсны.
Он засыпает в ванной, я над ним смеюсь.
Он знает все созвездия, а я просто пялюсь на звёзды.
Откуда здесь так много белых неуставших глаз,
Заплывших жиром строк и драм дешёвых и ненужных?
Голос поставленных к стене сорвётся понапрасну.
Голос забывших про мечту лезет в каждые уши.
Везучий сукин сын тебя не проиграет в карты;
Пьёт самый крепкий кофе, бьёт бокалы, но зато
Его стихи чуть лучше, чем мои. Значит, так надо.
Он нервно и неровно дышит, забывая. где твой дом.
А что я? Я плохо склеен, плохо прорисован,
Не помню имена, всюду вижу расчёт.
Я так хотел тебе всё рассказать, но ты не поняла ни слова.
Теперь спроси меня ещё... Спроси меня ещё...
А почему твой друг не играет блюз?
Он смотрит в календарь, но ничего там нет.
Он засыпает в ванной, но я не смеюсь.
И пялиться на звёзды теперь не по мне.
And how to find the only true word
When are you in a house where all the windows overlook the north?
Heroes of second -rate dramas, stamped sitcom
We will finally tell us why we are growing up.
All musicians will stop getting along the strings,
It’s so difficult for them with broken fingers.
And we will learn to love for ice cheekbones,
For red linen on the most smooth white skin.
You bite your lips in vain again, look
On the windowsill, there are flowers, and, therefore, we leave soon.
In the country of extinguished signs, they dance to dawn.
There are only empty conversations in the country of spacious rooms.
Why doesn't my friend play a blues?
He looks at the calendar, and there are eternal vanity.
He falls asleep in the bathroom, I laugh at him.
He knows all the constellations, and I just stare at the stars.
Where there are so many white unsteady eyes where,
Flapped with fat lines and dramas of cheap and unnecessary ones?
The voice of the set to the wall will break in vain.
The voice of those who forgot about the dream climbs into every ears.
A lucky bitch son will not lose you into cards;
Drinks the strongest coffee, beats glasses, but then
His poems are a little better than mine. So it is necessary.
He breathes nervously and unevenly, forgetting. where is your home.
What about me? I am poorly glued, poorly drawn,
I don’t remember the names, I see the calculation everywhere.
I so wanted to tell you everything, but you did not understand a word.
Now ask me again ... ask me again ...
Why doesn't your friend play a blues?
He looks at the calendar, but there is nothing there.
He falls asleep in the bathroom, but I do not laugh.
And staring at the stars is now not for me.
When are you in a house where all the windows overlook the north?
Heroes of second -rate dramas, stamped sitcom
We will finally tell us why we are growing up.
All musicians will stop getting along the strings,
It’s so difficult for them with broken fingers.
And we will learn to love for ice cheekbones,
For red linen on the most smooth white skin.
You bite your lips in vain again, look
On the windowsill, there are flowers, and, therefore, we leave soon.
In the country of extinguished signs, they dance to dawn.
There are only empty conversations in the country of spacious rooms.
Why doesn't my friend play a blues?
He looks at the calendar, and there are eternal vanity.
He falls asleep in the bathroom, I laugh at him.
He knows all the constellations, and I just stare at the stars.
Where there are so many white unsteady eyes where,
Flapped with fat lines and dramas of cheap and unnecessary ones?
The voice of the set to the wall will break in vain.
The voice of those who forgot about the dream climbs into every ears.
A lucky bitch son will not lose you into cards;
Drinks the strongest coffee, beats glasses, but then
His poems are a little better than mine. So it is necessary.
He breathes nervously and unevenly, forgetting. where is your home.
What about me? I am poorly glued, poorly drawn,
I don’t remember the names, I see the calculation everywhere.
I so wanted to tell you everything, but you did not understand a word.
Now ask me again ... ask me again ...
Why doesn't your friend play a blues?
He looks at the calendar, but there is nothing there.
He falls asleep in the bathroom, but I do not laugh.
And staring at the stars is now not for me.