Today I,
poet,
fighter for the future,
got dressed, like a fool.
In one hand -
wreath
huge
from huge forget-me-nots,
in another -
from teahouses -
pink bouquet.
I go
through the motor-gasoline haze
to Louvre.
Fold
on the trouser
straightened nervously;
I don't remember,
did i pay for the ticket;
and so
hall,
and in it
Venus
disability.
First confusion
dissipated when,
I say:
- Madame!
Of good will,
despite the brilliance,
here
would never sharpen my skis.
But I
poet of the USSR -
nobles
lick!
We
in the republic
your glory does not fade.
Aesthetes
dying from marble gloss.
Briefly speaking:
I -
from Vyacheslav
Polonsky.
He has a Greek nose.
He loves you.
is he
poelladist Litsiniev and Lucii,
at least edits
and peace",
and "Niva",
and "Print
and revolution ".
He asks to convey,
that he has no life.
Our union
rude for a thin man.
He suffers a lot there
from the man,
from lefs and craftsmen.
He asks to convey,
what, "Lef" and "pref" bone,
he is sailing to Hellas
supra-class consciousness.
He dreams
about the Hellenic guests,
about togas,
about sandals in Ryazan,
so that with a hexameter
changed
lefovca stanza,
so that the Radimovs
galloped along the path,
and so that Radimov
It was
not a human, a favn,—
to pipe,
legguard
and horns.
Of course,
should be borne in mind,—
we, madam,
not everyone is like that there.
But this me
I pass beliberdu.
On it
almost official stamp.
Veleno
at your feet
put
bouquets and wreath.
Venus,
do honor and happiness.
katite
in his dreams
of the Hellenic days of the boat ...
Well,
will!
It's over with the official part.
madam,
adieu! —
No smile,
no greetings from her lips.
And while
another crowd
pounds cook,
parting
no handshake
due to the complete absence
hands.
I go -
auto blows.
I dance - I don't go.
Home!
Careful
and it
I'm standing in my window.
Opposite the windows
sleek house
burns with glass ice.
Burns over the house
letters heat́ —
garage.
No garage -
God himself!
"Miles of voices,
de san boxing ».
Translated into simple:
"Thousand wagons,
two hundred stalls ".
Comrades!
You
issued Royls?
Royles,
which has grown together with the wind?
And when it is -
whale.
And this
car kit w
raise
to the sixth floor!
Becoming
smaller than mice,
thousand machine babies
sleeping in his arms
garage-wheeĺssa.
The steering wheels are waiting -
grab a hand.
And the wheels shine with aluminum,
round,
like fools.
And when
again
inhale at dawn
air
million
radiator nostrils,
who will make
and what a fool
twirl your nose
to the Louvres and sculpture?!
The car and Venus are old́-from?
let the!
Again and AHRRov and roz.
Bourgeois life
has not changed.
Shake and we are futur-old.
Comrade Polonsky!
We will not allow
lovers of old
noble manners
in the face of builders
poke calluses,
over the centuries
grated
in Venus.