Текст песни Бригадный Подряд - Гитары

Why do not you have a son growing up?
Mom's been rooting since morning boy
Rock your stupid nese
Life you obviously did not crumple boka!
In the group of yours alone addicts
Also sitting on the neck of mother
The songs are full - yes empty pockets
Who would set your accursed garage on fire?

Chorus:
    Do not give, Mom, the sons of a guitar
    Become a musician - a little bitter sips
    Do not bring happiness Fender Stratocaster
    Will not feed son Gibson Thunderbird

Duri typed in his Internet
Jump with a guitar - do not dig a pit
Here the neighbors have normal children
In the morning to work - and in the evening to sleep
I do not understand your songs
What's it to you, it hurts, since you're yelling so?
With your dog's music sneeze
Previously, the youth was different!

Chorus: - \ -

Your father is late at the factory
If only my son was dressed and shod
Previously, in the ensemble, I also played
There was, they say, another balamut
Dad sighed, wiggling his jaws
Well, my wife, shut up let's go
You can see not all are born old people
You know, son, if you want - play!

Chorus:
    Give moms to the sons of a guitar
    Let your dear chudushko pass
    And singing with happiness Fender Stratocaster
    And will reveal the soul of Gibson Thunderbird