Текст песни Тимур Шаов - Разговор с критиком

He came face killer
Overlooking the evil bloodsuckers,
He said that he is my critic
And good my desirability,
That he supposedly calm my low
Aesthetically not a short,
I'm the shit, and he - Belinsky,
All this frenetic.

Indignant that I dirty,
Willfully, ugly
Nasty word - "orgasm"
I sing with impunity.
"You're not just songs lepish -
metish you in our morals!
During orgasm you will answer,
Gad will, I bet! "

I shamefacedly zaohala,
I began to ask forgiveness.
He thought: "It's bad,
This can bite. "
Inflamed it immensely,
I wanted to offend.
"You do a nudist, probably!
And still wore glasses!

No, I would sing about the tent and campfire,
About how we are not afraid of rain gloomy!
But you sat down, as malicious tapeworm,
In the tormented womb of culture!

culture -
Mul'tur,
Kul-kul-kul-kul,
Mul-mul-mul-mul.

Bad I did not open.
Drowned Mu-Mu, I confess.
All I will say in all confess
Just do not lead to execute.
This I bombed the Balkans,
I tortured Corvalan,
And Alexander Mirzayan
I was planning to kill him.

What drink polish,
So I sit down to write a hack.
Pedestal native culture
I scratch a nail.
Slanderer and calumniator,
Seducer of young girls,
And anyway, I - the doctor-wrecker,
Come to the reception!


If there is a paradise where the bards -
I go there do not get.
If there where hell for bards,
That burn me in hell.
And in Paradise are tents,
All khalyavnykh circle -
Tea thick and sweet vinegar,
And all the songs only that:

Long live the tents and fire,
Our operation humane, the development of tourism,
Lead the people to victory in A Minor.
Everything else - revisionism.

And angry Guardian
For someone else's virtue
With me for these lyrics
Penance imposed.
You said, obliged though I burst,
Write one hundred and twenty songs
On tourism and the forest
All blood instead of ink.

I thought: "Enough is enough, hateful!
Cho those should be something, man?
You six-winged seraphim,
Well pluck my sinful tongue! "
I listened, ears flapping,
And when very tired,
What I said out loud: "Ass!"
Then he fainted.

But since the soul at rest there,
And from experiences such
Somehow I had Athanasius Fet,
The striker Ivan Semenycha Barkov.

He thrashed his knuckles,
Sentenced at the same time:
"I came to you with greetings
Tell that the sun rose
What mannered poets
Ought not to be expressed. "
A Barkov Sorry,
Burned poem about Luka.
That is now an omen
I dreamed fool.

But I wrote a song spite of enemies,
As a lover of steam
By the fire, in a tent, with a guitar
He received a fiery orgasm.