Translation: Let's write about Khrushchevki and throw your hands to me in the BOS I absolutely don't care I'm dying from the fact that there is no love, but sheer boredom They say love is a bitch, so love only relieves boredom We collapsed on our knees a long time ago, now only blood oozes from the cups My parents started talking about drugs and sex with me a little more often A vivid example of a difficult teenager Girls trudge with pumped-up But this is just an example of overgrowth Where is she, tell me, where is she? And in response only silence, and in response only moo Sincerity perishes, I'm rather not Chatsky, but Molchalin Shut up and log in It will never be like in Pelevin's books A film of your last happy photos will fall out at the Torpedo Stadium If you are not a vegan, then no one will accept you into their sect The main label of this industry is iPhones You will ask me, what does your life story have to do with it, you are a strange clown And I will ask in response, where is she, where? You won't understand, you'll lock me up in a circus And I will draw with a compass so that fake scum won't see me. Are you so angry, and you will see the enlightenment of my red lasers And the essence is simple, it is not there, I become wadded, not real I ask, where is she? She comes, I talk to her for two minutes and I understand that this is not the case I take alcohol and our love plays into the box Because it's not real
