Singer: Basta. Page 1

Share Russian, we on this proportion in the proportion in full right,
The Motherland will not let go, spawned by herself - she strangled.
And instead of tears from her birch juice...

It is good there where we are not,
There are in fact eternal summer, and the house in bad weather.
Oh, grief, what not in money happiness,
And then I two times could happiness be stolen.
And tearing to pieces, as if a hundred through
And let the wind I that stole from the Treasury.
In exile wanted my heart deeply buried,
The gardens of Paradise there, Yes, but I have still the volume.

And sorrow, what not in money happiness,
But it would, I once or twice could happiness be stolen.

Look, we fastened to each other, some handcuffs,
And just in case - I threw the key of them.

Let our team cowboys
But we have God himself on the gate.

You know, Selmash not Brighton, but for me, Paradise is there.

The district is waiting for the guests, as the knuckles on top of the bones.
You can't wash the area after graduating from the Institute.

I laugh to God, sharing with him the plans.
He laughed heartily, but I decided not to break off.
Hike it styanuli my sets arrogance,
After all, handing the cards to the players, I passed the full house.

My judgment and my conscience - the eyes of a little Girl.

My little says what is on her mind,
And she doesn't care what and who will be left in the comments.
You know, each of us could do the same,
But the little boy grew up, and now he's a shady player.

I'm not mercury to depend on temperature changes.

Let's go for a walk through parallel worlds!
Happened good, and it will come back to you like a boomerang.
Me without music is nothing, the bullet or the noose!
Me without music is to live, not in a rush! No without of music a day!

Yeah, I'm not a genius, not a Prodigy, not a child of Indigo,
Average, unbalanced, conflict.
Alas, God gave me the talent, deciding
What's the best gift for me will become my bad temper.
And let the soul, like an old worn Shoe,
But, I do what others guts!

Each before God, naked, miserable and wretched.
In each of the music Bach, each of us is God.
Beethoven, came home from school, sitting at the computer,
Wrote a masterpiece in b-flat minor, without knowing the notes.