Nate 2

[intro] [Ударные бас гитара] [verse 1] In an hour from here to a clean laneYour bloated fat will ooze through a man,But I have opened so many poem boxes for you,I am the squanderer and spendthrift of priceless words.Here you are, sir, with cabbage in your mustache—From meals half-eaten, half-consumed broths;And there you are, lady, thickly powdered white,You stare like an oyster from shells of things.All of you will climb onto the butterfly heart of poetry—Filthy ones, shod or unshod in galoshes.The crowd will go wild, rubbing against each other,A hundred-headed louse bristling its legs.But if today this rude Hun does not feel like grimacing before you—Then I'll burst into laughter and joyfully spit,I'll spit right in your face—I, the squanderer and spendthrift of priceless words. [Chorus 1] All of you will climb onto the butterfly heart of poetry—Filthy ones, shod or unshod in galoshes.The crowd will go wild, rubbing against each other,A hundred-headed louse bristling its legs.But if today this rude Hun does not feel like grimacing before you [bridge] [chorus 2] All of you will climb onto the butterfly heart of poetry—Filthy ones, shod or unshod in galoshes.The crowd will go wild, rubbing against each other,A hundred-headed louse bristling its legs.But if today this rude Hun does not feel like grimacing before you [outro]