Shouting to the poet:
“Look at you at the lathe.
And what are the poems?
Probably to work - the gut is thin”.
any occupations are dearer.
I'm a factory too.
And if without pipes,
it's harder without pipes.
I know -
you do not like idle phrases.
Chop the oak - to work in order.
not woodworkers unless?
We trim the oaks of human heads.
a venerable thing to fish.
Pull the net.
In sturgeon nets b!
But the work of poets is more respectable -
to catch people alive, not fish.
Huge work - to burn above the forge,
iron sizzling put in the temper.
But who is
in idleness will reproach us?
Grind brains with a tongue rasp.
Who is higher is a poet
leads people to tangible gain?
Hearts are such motors.
The soul is the same cunning engine.
We are equal.
Comrades in the mass of workers.
Proletarians of body and spirit.
we will decorate the universe
and let's start marching.
Let's fence ourselves off from the storms of verbal pier.
To the point!
Work alive and new.
And idle speakers -
to the mill!
Turn the millstones with the water of speeches.