My mood depends on how many bottles of wine I drink.
The beautiful girl from Leningrad invaded my soul and body like a worm.
My young and ignorant life could not be separated from Cheongsam, vodka, brandy and whiskey.
Why did you stupid Victor revise my song? You shot me down and I still praise the great socialism.
Either you sing a good nursery rhyme, or teach your son how to draw, don’t stop me from playing the Long March for 25,000 miles. You have heard of punk you’ve never seen before.
When Zegna grows up, give him a guitar. Without a guitar, you can't sleep with a girl, without a girl, you can't give birth to a baby, and grandpa without a baby can't play with him when he grows old.
You have to be lucky to be born in Leningrad, to be born in communism, and fortunate that the American emperor's eagle met Katyusha, who we will all run away in panic.
We used to dance ballet together, the velvet band came to cheer us, vinyl records were full of our youth and sex.
Sally didn't know how to dance. He took the children to the underground, where there were wandering poets, candied haws, and matryoshka waiting to be bought. When he went home, he went to sleep and dreamed of Bob Dylan.
In the corner of the night, the cold was pressing, and we wrinkled wrinkles about the band's name. Restless rock and roll lying on the wooden box, drunks, cheap wine, keno, dinner forks, screw cones, sardines, coats, leathers, shit, so many words in the world, all these words were eaten by dogs at this moment.
In order to buy guitars, we went to prostitution, in order to buy loudspeakers, we went to the station to steal pictures, and in order to buy beer, we exchanged cigarettes for Aladdin.
Don't call me, don't speak English to me, don't come to my concert, give me three rubles, let me buy a cup of coffee.
The old man with gray beard on the bus, and the women with sagging fat on the beach, remember to give them their seats on weekends, make time to barbecue with them, and climb the window when they come back.
Cheese, apples, chicken, rice, sausages, the eldest brother’s woman only has dicks, and she took these foods across the city without any broken tea cups.
The gunfire on the street does not hinder our laziness and tranquility. The plane above the Soviet Union is our harmony, the drunkard’s bottle is our source of inspiration, and the lunch drain is the keen and hard rock hero.
We are not lazy ghosts, we are the working class, the proletariat, and the blue-collar lyricism.
Alcoholism, promiscuity, drugs, theft, burning and looting, wealth, freedom, equality, ideology, the world is too dark. Our utopia must stand up and criticize, using our throat and Mike.
Friendship, love, music, ideals, the army, there are too many to praise, it is better to break up.
My sunglasses can't see your pupils, and the applause in the audience is deafening. This is the testimony of rock stars. Female fans always scream as if they have just experienced an orgasm.
You used to be a Beatle. Kneeled down and pleated your double leather coat into the sole of your shoe. The old mother prayed for you in your hometown, and the echo penetrated the melody of time and space.
Natasha, Natasha, you like tomatoes so much, why don't you run away with the young man with cigarette holder? Don't be a woman tied up by your elder brother. While you are young, go and fuck the little meat, let the elder brother go to the rain to buy drunk and contemplate.
Lou Reid said that on a good day, he would go to the park to drink, go to the zoo to feed the animals, watch a movie, and then go home and write a meaningless song.
On the window of a tram, I traced bad words with my fingers. The drain pipe was playing this music, and my head was like grass from the rain.
The city is now wet and damp. I don’t take a walk with an umbrella. The gleaming glass is like a mirror in the rain. I walk around and look around at other people’s homes.
No one needs me, and I don't need anyone.
The roof is dripping rain after the rain. It's warm weather here, and I hope it will always be like this.
If you smile, everything is not bad, let us sit down and look at the world through a glass of wine.
In the X era and O era, we are very strange. You will only understand when you see it. We are painful strangers. We are all willful requests. Don't think about what any one of us needs.
The dream concert, a gymnasium that can accommodate thousands of people, sound effects, lighting, color smoke, three drummers, two painters, one pure white, one color, ten people blowing air, elephants coming in, a string band, one A harp played by a people’s artist.
I am an old Communist, and I want to sing a song about steam engines.
I dream of living in an old castle with you and listening to the blues.
But all we have is a collective apartment and the gatekeeper's salary.
I want to plant a tree and climb onto the tree when I get old to look at our old house.
Until I drink and die, until I can't see you, until I forget you.
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