Ансамбль Тчк - НИИ Мясо - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

White life blacks

Fall onto a yielding curb

From rich carriages

Plastic surface of convolutions

Dreaming of political correctness.

Seven feet under the keel

Whether you become a shared or a separate waste

Your presence won't make the krill tastier

Ugh, wrinkling its whiskers, the whale will only spit

Into the bottomless pit

People without shores are a nationality

Who will scribble boyish haiku for us

You're a bad whale food

Treat and cherish the ailment from every crevice

And even though the puppy is submissive to you

And rows of women groan

You're a mannequin, and this neck is its very purpose

Wearing an expensive thing

For electronic money

Stand still, don't blink

Between moments there's only a moment

And beyond the river is the whole world

It groans and smokes

Laughs and eats shrimp for lunch

Prefers the best

The plastic world will win

In any case

You open the package, inside is a Chinese plastic mannequin

Point blank at you You pull it out in front and ask, timidly.

Where's the slot for kopecks inside you?

The cavemen's chants in loincloths.

Do they make your day paler and gloomier? Your udder less bitchy?

Does the witch in the hole turn time into dry fuel?

In the depths of the tavern, probably deliberately, systematically.

Why were mannequins made by no one, and why by someone? The tape stretches into inferno, the system knows what's in the swabs taken

In the extracted brains, they'll find out how much they couldn't let go

The organ is biased, fiscal, chilly under the scanner

Buttons are pressed, the mannequin is chopped and gutted by machines

Plastic will become pajamas, will melt to you in a fire, such a pity

The mannequin rolls off the assembly line, lackeys run to check where the slot for kopecks is in the new you

The odometer is rolled back, the fractal is closed, victory is the chorus

The plastic world has won, the model has proven stronger,

The last lantern has cooled, the last boat is tired

In the artist's studio, a wooden mannequin sits, all articulated, on hinges

Frank as truth in gaping holes, in places a juicy Lenin of elbows and knees

The smell of dust and decay smells of turpentine, the artist has already stretched the canvas

Who will you become, model, what does it matter? If you're not alive and posing for nothing, what does it matter?

A lilac underpainting swirls beneath a rough brush.

A brush allied with credit cards, paint with glory.

Poetry has no words for mixed arts.

Who is your master, a genius, a mediocrity, a hack?

I will sell him to his slanderer in prayer.

Because Adam was created from clay.

You are Adam's manual - a free model.

Who am I if they cry and walk around.

On hinges and in holes, I sold my conscience.

Among people, there are many mannequins.

Think, maybe your friend is among them.

Or that lackey who speaks objectively of doubt.

Measured in meters, the hotel's meter grew sad.

I would run aground, and there's a thaw not far away.

Hungry uncles and aunties think about halftones in half measures.

And they deliberately drive me into a stall.

Is it worth it?

And how much longer will these calculations and numbers go on?

Everyone goes from the hospital to the morgue, not from the morgue to the hospital.

All the pain is gone, I've already fallen on my face, and it's time to settle down.

Birds sing of the steppe, and unborn children; I won't chew over this nonsense.

In the artist's studio sits a mannequin.

The plastic world has won, the model has proven stronger.

The last lantern has cooled, the last boat has tired.