Текст песни Константин Арбенин. Исполняет Вячеслав Ковалев - Семь куплетов про поэтов

I am a poet . You - the poet's son . I'm smart. You - formed .
You are talented , even in summer . I mediocre seasons.
Step on the rake every critic wildly pleased -
Glad to squeeze a drop of your arapsky concentrate.

The poet , not all at home - family holiday poet.
Weighs his languor and inspiring summer.
He now only swims breaststroke for the buoys .
Sailors no mattresses, the sailors - hammocks .

Poet wanders over the sky , under the poet walks the land .
Worn out soul bliss, sun fries , thirst dries .
What would invent such that couples do not crushed bones?
Live poetry is not new , but the prose - not newer .

The poet has little money - do not give bribes for rhyme .
He is handsome and molodenek , but the soul goes to the heel :
What is poetry ? - Pompey , whose days are numbered.
I'd love her more if it were not his wife.

The poet bad thing : Muse in temechko does not sting .
From heat soured body , everything flows and all the way.
Mosquitoes second night tearing earplugs silence.
Frozen in " Kama Sutra " poetic dreams.

The poet dry throat, pain in the neck reduces the eyebrows ,
Wither on the vine roots , thoughts stuck in the most crown.
Thirty years since the world began off on mind -
Make yourself an idol , not to booze alone !

Poet alive , and back home again . Behind the rest of the summer .
Not completed three volumes , did not finish the libretto ...
Usvisteli steamers , trains rung .
Nature does not have weather in nature - as always .