Slava Meskhi (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} meskhi) wrote,@ 2006-08-08 23:51:00 |
|
a broken line
My life,
in few,
I fall
in love
with you,
That's all.
Above
is nothing new.
It's half past five,
a steady rain,
My train,
is due.
It's really my season,
for no apparent reason,
I feel an omen of a treason,
nobody is on.
My face is shrunken,
and like a dummy Yankee,
I'm furiously drunken.
Danke.
It seems, I've got a kink,
so, looking for the missing link,
I think,
it's just the spring.
So long.
I'm only one
among
good many.
A pretty penny.
But nobody will pay.
three times a day,
And I will never
go a bit strong.
Do not get wrong.
Yours ever.
my life, my prison,
it has
no rhyme or reason,
nevertheless,
God bless
you with the same,
I never hang my head in shame,
my aim
was never to be lame,
and never
smear my name.
you know,
you have no control lever
to play this game,
it's like a drunken brawl,
endeavour!
forget.
I have no use for it,
you bet!
and never let
you be a bit
unhappy.
your fire
is snappy,
so do as you think fit,
and I retire,
my line is scrappy.
that's not the game,
to use
a fancy name,
and to exchange abuse
with your old flame,
the very same.
no news -
good news,
excuse
rather than blame.
I am fine.
"bread & wine"
is my general line,
and this wisdom I can
indicate by a sign,
but i sell only ten,
and you need only nine,
'tis just nothing, but story of mine.
once more,
just do not close
the door,
I know the score,
suppose,
you stay before
a bore,
follow your nose,
you are so moody,
and goody-goody.
I think
my spirits sink.
somehow,
it is a link
between
my thought and drink,
and now,
to save my skin,
I have to make my bow.
I measure
my wine,
but not in liters, not in pints,
- in pleasure,
in merry days and nights.
my broken line
is just a sure sign
- it's fine
at half past nine,
when I am slightly tight
and writing at my leisure.
Heavy snow
brings me low,
can I drink this whisky raw?
Oh!
No!
My life,
in few,
I fall
in love
with you,
That's all.
Above
is nothing new.
It's half past five,
a steady rain,
My train,
is due.
It's really my season,
for no apparent reason,
I feel an omen of a treason,
nobody is on.
My face is shrunken,
and like a dummy Yankee,
I'm furiously drunken.
Danke.
It seems, I've got a kink,
so, looking for the missing link,
I think,
it's just the spring.
So long.
I'm only one
among
good many.
A pretty penny.
But nobody will pay.
three times a day,
And I will never
go a bit strong.
Do not get wrong.
Yours ever.
my life, my prison,
it has
no rhyme or reason,
nevertheless,
God bless
you with the same,
I never hang my head in shame,
my aim
was never to be lame,
and never
smear my name.
you know,
you have no control lever
to play this game,
it's like a drunken brawl,
endeavour!
forget.
I have no use for it,
you bet!
and never let
you be a bit
unhappy.
your fire
is snappy,
so do as you think fit,
and I retire,
my line is scrappy.
that's not the game,
to use
a fancy name,
and to exchange abuse
with your old flame,
the very same.
no news -
good news,
excuse
rather than blame.
I am fine.
"bread & wine"
is my general line,
and this wisdom I can
indicate by a sign,
but i sell only ten,
and you need only nine,
'tis just nothing, but story of mine.
once more,
just do not close
the door,
I know the score,
suppose,
you stay before
a bore,
follow your nose,
you are so moody,
and goody-goody.
I think
my spirits sink.
somehow,
it is a link
between
my thought and drink,
and now,
to save my skin,
I have to make my bow.
I measure
my wine,
but not in liters, not in pints,
- in pleasure,
in merry days and nights.
my broken line
is just a sure sign
- it's fine
at half past nine,
when I am slightly tight
and writing at my leisure.
Heavy snow
brings me low,
can I drink this whisky raw?
Oh!
No!
