Текст песни имяисполнителя - мыши

Cold corpses, rattling tubes, mole holes and singularities, languid, loud, terrible orgies from the sounds of death and surgical scalpels. Nobody will come, nothing will help, death on the threshold prays for us - the dead. These white walls and lattice windows do not make you feel the whole freedom of thought. Medics beat with sticks - it hurts, it's funny. Nothing will help us, we will all die here. Jesus, from the third chamber, will miss all those who did not come back, he knew all the bodies themselves, they walked, they were friends, they talked, they loved ...
Just like in children. sad, but only - thoughts. Here they are still childishly naive, but the problem is that here they are too much. They are sent to an electric chair for them, they are forced to collect a dirty court, and orderlies, like dogs, all piss and piss, and swallow in power suck. This is not fair and this is a lie, we are exactly the same people, but the louse that crept into the minds of doctors squeezes the juice out of them. I hear the walls crying, and I cry with them. Drawing on the wall like a fat cat devours himself quietly losing his mind. I was allowed to write, gave a pen, paper. But forbidden to write petitions and protective diplomas for the bachelor. I'll be out soon, my friends told me so. Well, those that planted me here. Yura, Andrei and Natasha, it seems that this was their name. All bricks, all syllables. I quietly rot, letting in my consciousness a new "I". Me and I, the two of us, we are friends. These, and not like those Julia, Sergey and Masha. All bricks, all on the shelves, in my mind singing screams abandoned, I quietly take a pen in my hand, flick ink out, put pressure on the paper, trying to focus all thoughts and organize knowledge. I see God, I see the universe, I feel every macromolecule. The quiet rumble of trains, born somewhere in the north. I remember going here hoping to finally find rest. I was promised a beautiful coffin, on which they will write, “Thank you for everything, thanks for the thoughts. Have a pleasant dream, dear rats.” I will bury them with me, take them already dead and drag them to the coffin. These are my mice, my words, thoughts. They are under the skin, on the walls and in the ceiling. In the mattress, in the eyes and tongue. They are not plague, white, cute. Like living. More alive than those who bury me here. Those orderlies - in fact the car, they are cruel, cynical, angry. They don't care about us, like everyone else. Love yourself and your mice.