brothers writers

Obviously, I won't get used to
sit in “Bristol”,
to drink tea,
I lie line by line, —
overturn glasses,
climb up on the table.
Listen,
literary fraternity!
sit,

having sunk eyes into a chaishko.
Wiped my elbow plush from stitching.
Lift your eyes from unfinished glasses.
Free your ears from cosm.
You,
adhered
to Wall,
to wallpaper,
lovely,
what brought you to the word?

And you,
if you didn't write,
robbery
trained by François Villon.
You,
taking with caution
and pocket knives,
the beauty of the most magnificent century is entrusted to you!
What to write to you?
Today

a life
a hundred times more interesting
any assistant attorney.
Lord poets,
really not bored
watch out,
palaces,
love,
lilac bush you?
If a

such, how are you,
creators -
I don't give a damn about any art.
I'd better open a shop.
I will go to the exchange.
I'll spread my sides with tight wallets.
A drunken song
I'll rip my soul out
in the tavern's study.
Will the blow penetrate under the shocks of hair?

Think
one under the hairline filed:
“brush? Why?!
At the time, not worth the trouble,
and forever
be combed
impossible”.

[1917]

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
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