Ah, one day, Astakhov admitted that he loves to write poems from the man’s face. Thus was born the true “Love don’t blubleu other” in poetic form.
Changing women as gloves,
Care about playing hide and seek,Hearts, chocolate bite
And each time was full — up!
Not me, they gave me flowers
And wailing softly: “I just want you!”
Were not even two weeks —
Was ready to climb into bed with me.
Throwing, not thinking about pain:
It was given to men’s will,
So every time halfway
Again, forget to say, “Sorry.”
And maybe shouldn’t,
But I will say: I left, too.
She gave me all the tenderness of hands and kisses,
To others not how much jealous.
As I left, cried:
“Oh it hurts, my heart hurts to realize separation!
Me again, hands!”
But it is worse than just “sorry”
In her heart helpless sadness.
Oh yeah! She loved most of all.
And not capable of sin
Wore long skirts.
And worshiping me-up
Too quickly tired.
He dropped immediately roared:
“Proud of yourself, be proud of your skill
But you know to you my aspiration.
O God, punish, to understand the pain
Hearts of others deceiving the king.”
And so wandering in front of the rapids,
Not to seduce — I can’t touch!
Curve nor woman, nor man,
I’m just miserable now… picture.
And so was, probably, a century.
And I was Subhuman.
The moral is simple as this verse:
Love don’t blubleu other.
Author: Ah Astakhova