Текст песни Евгений Евтушенко - Облако в штанах. 2 - В.Маяковский

Praise me!
I'm not a great couple.
I'm above all that is done
I put "nihil".

Never
I do not want to read anything.
Books?
What a book!

I used to think -
books are made like this:
the poet came
he opened his mouth easily
and immediately sang an inspired simpleton -
you are welcome!
But it turns out -
before you start singing
walk for a long time, grinding after fermentation,
and floundering quietly in the hush of heart
stupid roach of imagination.
While boiling, rhyming sawing,
from love and nightingales some kind of brew,
the street is writhing
she has nothing to scream and talk.

The cities of the tower of Babel,
proud, ascend again
and god
arable land
destroys
disturbing the word.

Street flour silently pearl.
A scream stood up from his throat.
Puffed, stuck across the throat,
chubby taxi and bony spills
Chest pedestal.

Consumption is flatter.
The city locked the road in darkness.

And when -
all the same! -
threw the crush into the square,
pushing the porch that stepped on the throat,
thought:
in the choirs of the archangel choral
God, robbed, goes to punish!

And the street crouched and yelled:
"Let's eat!"

Make up the city of Kruppa and Kruppiki
menacing eyebrows wrinkle
and in the mouth
dead words decompose the corpses,
only two live, fat loss -
bastard
and some other
It seems to be borsch.

Poets
soaked in weeping and sobbing
rushed from the street, ruffling cosmas:
"How to drink two of these
and the young lady
and love,
and a flower under the dew? "
And for the poets -
street thousand:
students
prostitutes
contractors.

Lord!
Stop!
You are not beggars
you dare not ask for handouts!

To us hefty
with a soot step
it’s necessary not to listen, but to tear them -
them,
sucked by a free application
to every double bed!

Do they humbly ask:
"Help me!"
Pray for a hymn
about the oratorio!
We ourselves are creators in a burning hymn -
the noise of the factory and laboratory.

What am I to Faust
extravaganza rockets
rolling with Mephistopheles in the sky!
I know -
the nail in my boot
more nightmare than Goethe's fantasy!

I,
gold-domest,
whose every word
gives birth to a soul
name the body
I tell you:
the smallest speck of dust of the living
the most valuable thing that I will do and have done!

Listen up!
Preaching
tossing and wailing
Today the crybug Zarathustra!
we
with a face like a sleepy sheet
with lips drooping like a chandelier
we,
convicts of the leper colony,
where gold and dirt ulcerated leprosy, -
we are cleaner than the venetian lazier
seas and suns washed immediately!

Spit that no
Homers and Ovidiev
people like us
from soot in smallpox.
I know -
the sun faded b seeing
our souls are gold placers!

Veins and muscles - prayers rather.
Do we beg for graces of time!
We -
each -
keep in our fives
worlds drive belts!

It cocked audiences at Calvary
Petrograd, Moscow, Odessa, Kiev,
and there was not one
which the
would not shout:
"Crucify
crucify him! "
But to me -
people,
and those who offended -
you are most dear to me and closer.

We saw
how a dog beats a beating hand ?!

I,
ridiculed by today's tribe
how long
Steamy Joke
I see time running through the mountains
which no one sees.

Where people’s eyes cut short,
the head of the hungry hordes
in the crown of thorns of revolution
the sixteenth year is coming.

And I am your forerunner;
I am where pain is everywhere;
on every drop of tear leak
crucified himself on the cross.
Nothing can be forgiven.
I burned out the souls where tenderness was raised.
It's harder than taking
thousand thousand Bastille!

And when,
his coming
announcing in rebellion
go to the savior -
you i
I'll take out my soul
trample on
so big! -
and bloodied ladies, like a banner.