The Rust That I Feed




Like Apollinaire – with soft words,
I though, what I overcarres you…
But I’ve wrapped around my hand
Barbed wire – bloody, long…
And even so I took my boots off
I was smelling of my thoughts
Thoughts crooked like a any dick
Thoughts like rainy, heavy clouds…

And Benedict’s strong fist
Hanging over sleepy head
I was looking in his eyes
Can he hear your swan-song ???
Let the night carry your singing
Up your ears !!! it is worth !!!
Let Amadeus turns in his grave
Let him curse – it’s not his note…

The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words

The man who carried the Christ
He’s got a knife in his hand
When he will mature – he’ll strike
You know, I know – I deserve
The night carry your song
Up your ears – it is worth!!!
Julius turns in his grave
Let him curse – that’s not his words…

The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words

The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words…

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