A Small Plot Of Land

Poor soul
Spit upon that
Poor soul
He never knew what hit him
And it hit him so

Poor dunce
He pushed back the pigmen
The Barbs laughed
The fool is dead

Poor dunce
He's less than within us
The brains talk
But the will to live is dead
And prayer can't
Travel so far these days
The talk of your lifes
Standing so near
To innocent eyes
Poor dunce

Swings thru the tunnels
And claws his way
Is small life so manic
Are these really the days

Poor dunce
Poor dunce

Poor soul
Spit on that
Poor soul
He never knew what hit him
And it him so
He pushed back the pigmen
Poor soul
Poor soul
Poor soul
Poor soul

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Автореквієм (Було Таке Передчуття)

Слова: Олег Малашевський Музика: Михайло Зарічний Я помер у люту зиму З дзвоном впав на лід На снігу сліпучім зринув Мій прощальний слід Вітер грав холодні вальси Срібний саван шив А мороз затиснув пальці На моїй душі Стало легко тепло