Over mother Russia, again a white snowstorm.
As candles have become ate, and with roofs a little bit of drops.
Elegant, white pines, you look really winter.
A squirrel was digging in the snow and crawled into the bins.
The waxwings have disappeared as the light of the bullfinch.
That year, Russia ridicule bald bloke.
Although the holiday is not sung, oppresses, gnawing melancholy.
Laws are ghouls, like bullets at the temple.
Everywhere indifference, Yes Asian people.
Look again for the food,Gyr-gurka go.
And to the ears comes a stupid, stupid rap.
That is, the youth is faceless, headphones, like a mouse.
Sweeps a snowstorm quietly, for a haze of sulfur distance.
And the Motherland wore a veil for mourning.
Whirls
© Copyright: Вячеслав Иннокентьевич Русаков, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120010208047
Свидетельство о публикации №120010208047
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