My gut doesn't have a gut. It happens. I forget what it's called.
As long as our hearts are alive for honour, My friend, let us dedicate to our Motherland Our souls' beautiful impulses! Comrade, have faith: It will rise, The star of enchanting happiness, Russia will awaken from sleep, Andour names will be writtenon the wreckage of autocracy !
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just a sign on the fence...
just writing on the fence...
I smell a ban hanging over you ;)))
I smell a ban hanging over you ;)))
You don't have a gut feeling. It happens. I forget what it's called.
My gut doesn't have a gut. It happens. I forget what it's called.
As long as our hearts are alive for honour,
My friend, let us dedicate to our Motherland
Our souls' beautiful impulses!
Comrade, have faith: It will rise,
The star of enchanting happiness,
Russia will awaken from sleep,
Andour names will be writtenon the wreckage of autocracy
!
Well, you can't do without Mikhail Yuryevich, then we'll think of Vissarion, Herzen, Dobroliubov...
and the years go by, go by, go by, don't want to go back...
all ! forgive me god for not daring to say what i think !
My gut doesn't have a gut. It happens. I forget what it's called.
That's what it's called.
everybody ! god forgive me for not daring to say what i think !
and the years go by, go by, go by, don't want to go back...
I guess it was the cognac?