Late hour, half past twelve, 7 thousand per motor,
A rumble in the head, fog in the eyes.
And in me there are two bottles of white, a penalty box, two in a hundred
And one more glass.
Dizziness, glitches without end,
Two images of one face.
How hard it is to creep a little alive along the streets
Through the bushes, through the curbs in a straight line.
But I'm a combat pilot, this is not the first time for me
I know the way to the base, how to go home.
He lay down on a course from the wall to the fence, the autopilot sleeps,
Oh, insolent! Probably drunk.
There is no connection, I looked at the devices, how to get on the wing
Without a screw and without a rudder.
No reason, a corkscrew, it seems.
In a puddle the reflection of my face ...
In all its full glory, I crawl along the runway,
Takeoff, separation, and I soar over the lawn.
Before the porch, a candle on the eighth floor
And at the threshold he made a dead loop.
I go quietly to the landing, the airdrome is sleeping,
Somewhere here was a sofa.
The hangar is sleeping, everything seems to be in order, but the dispatcher is waiting for me,
So again a night ram.
Something flies to my mind in a big way,
And the debriefing will be difficult.
Closed airspace, I was driven into the corridor,
I got a fighter in the tail with a bucket.
A bomber with a broom goes on a shaver behind me,
That's how the native airfield meets us.