Song: Paradise apples

In numbed hands candles melted as in the candelabra,
In the meantime, I again raised the horses into a gallop.
I scored, I natryas most of these bessemechnyh apples
And for that I shot without a miss in the forehead.

I learned the old man to tears on his cheeks flabby:
Is Peter the old man - he's an Apostle and I'm a mutt.
Here groves gardens, in whom Prorva frozen apples...
But the gardens guard and shoot without a miss in the forehead.

And the Apostle-old man - he shouted over custody-Commissioner -
He called somebody again and started to open...
Someone with a stick with a screw to pull their socks about the rail hit -
And all rushed rasprekrasno grace!

And a huge step not utter a single groan,
Only squat suddenly feeling his knees moved.
Here raspberry, brothers, - stunned crimson bells!
All returned to the circle and the circle hung crucified.

Rzhanet as root! I humbled him a kind word,
Yes Repi from urine hardly ripped and braided mane.
The white-haired old man something long tinkered with the bolt -
And groaned and grumbled, and could not open the - and left.

Rode - look - the sight is not Paradise something:
Narodami wasteland and sheer nothingness - chaos.
And nothing stood among cast gate
And a huge step at the gate, the gate looked.

The dirt hit the face, fell prettier side,
And hit soul on stolen nag at a gallop.
In the wondrous Paradise gardens gathering a pale pink apples.
Sorry, gardens guard and shoot without a miss in the forehead.

I will die, we always die
As I would have to guess, not to himself, to the back with a knife.

Bring us all good, and I demanded a lot of benefits?
Me - that had friends and wife - that fell on the coffin.

Slain spare, burial service and pampered haven,
Will not tell about the living but the dead, we cherish.