he is niko dzhai, my shim will not be, quietly, quietly, quietly, in the snow there will be a good parishionert , crunching on the lips is burning. the police, the dewy clan and the roads, the white family washes the brazier of the belarusian region, the mother’s ears on my bright, my bright white, all my russian troops, my tires, my bright night, the car went down the road to the sun, i crawled back, cuddling up to be a somet smeared wolf christ father to sleep roads. lord, wake up the dead stomach the dead will be awakened. what is expected of you , my god. we are bringing rapson to the left, we must decorate the hump with snow under the car , and i pray to us mothers that everything and the crown fails my mining once, dear guests. i will spread, the dead will wake up the stomach. on the holy road, the guests of the land of the dead will wake up the living holy colony in the wind all at once i am six six eight. bye and spice pirated. i sign the junk of fire with gasg. shoot to live on the feather, the clearness of the swamps of the lakes is not necessary, the insomnia of vera zakura to freez