Poem about Butcher, about Baba and wide scale

Clean your boots - 1 000 000.
I used to buy a house -
and even not bad.

Accustomed to millions.
Even the distance to the moon
it seems nonsense to a Soviet citizen.

The devil pulled me
write one report,

“What it is?” –
asks with longing
Well, what will I answer her?!
God knows, what it is,
if behind
in care
thirty seven zeros.
One fool recently assured me,
what does she have

thirty-nine thousand seven hundredths temperature.
So used to the numbers,
which is less than a fathom number and is inconceivable.
And for us,
if we roar at the rally,
arithmetic framework, of course, narrow -
we solve everything on a global scale.
As a last resort - the scale is all-Russian.
“Electrification!?” - All-Russian scale.
“Cleaning!” - on an all-Russian scale,

to avoid correspondence,
offered -
through the ground
to Washington cable.

I go.
The night is deaf.
I jump with a wagtail from bump to bump.

Behind with a trolley baba.
With things
to Yaroslavsky
squelches over bumps.
They knock down those who have become in the tail on galoshes;
then the truck will check,
then horse.
- four-year skill! –
trudge between the gutters,

And that
- remembering mom on the fly -
in a big way
at the post office
I flop into the pit.
A cart on me.
On the cart baba.
We toss and turn from side to side in the mud.

What a grand scale is ours?!
Baba's snout was poured with mud,
and grandma,
climbing from floor to floor,
from above
and me
and wing power.
Truthful and free is my prophetic language
and is friendly with the will of the Soviet,
but, bumping into these lows,

even I hesitated, confused.
I grew up on difficult agitation issues,
а вот
I can't explain to a woman,
Why is this
about dirt
on Myasnitskaya
no one decides on a common Yasnitsk scale?!


( No ratings yet )
Share with your friends:
Vladimir Mayakovsky
Add a comment