ASHES Bashny.Net

Author of the "oratorio" Ivan Davydov.

Written smart, evil and caustically.
Muscovites - perhaps - offend. Residents' zamkadya "- please - for everything - the truth.




Ashes.

(Oratorio for balalaika)

From Moscow you can be alone to us that good? Do we not from the severity of things were made, and the tributes of serious and nasilstva and tivuni and dovotschitsi and pristavnitsi?
The Life of Stephen Pemskogo

Dusty tract. Away - trashy provincial town like Perm: rotten wreck, cows, goats, a series of giant fans.
At highway endless line ragged Muscovites are downcast.
Grandfather sitting on the sidelines - Ivan Kolpakov, and granddaughters - Kolpakov Vanyatka. Santa wrapped in a jacket and thoughtfully pluck the strings of the balalaika.
Granddaughters grimy smears on the smiley face snot.

Grandson (picking his nose):
 - Santa and who they are - Muscovites? Where are they? What kind of people are they? What was it - Moscow?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
Many of us were oppressed, the grandson - tatarva, Mordvinians,
Whipped, Hawa, if victuals.
But what is happening with Russia Moscow,
Do not see the Batu in a nightmare.

Moscow - like rotting scab,
As a festering sore.
As if the corpse sat
For someone who is alive.

Money in Moscow - cars,
Bab Moscow - caravans.
Writhing in agony country
With pockets turned inside out.

Robbed, dishonored
Muscovites are greedy,
Cried - homelessness
Girl on the dock.

Without leaving the coffeehouse
Cocktail through a straw through
Sniff, hair dryer,
Our farm, boilers,

Plants swallowed without choking,
Washed down with oil.
Leave behind dirt
Half to death.

Grandson (picking his nose):
 - Duck Cho won it. Well, do you?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
I was in Moscow. Takes roughly.
Accepted, that is, for some troll.
Face control mutuzit me at the club,
In which does no face control.

She was beaten by the cops then, beat fun with songs,
Yes so hard that he almost came off the soul.
In general, I had to give half of the pension
Just for the right to breathe the air of Moscow.

And I dreamed of a fool,
To the right of "Ermes" footcloths with fringe.
Money was only enough to "Doshirak»
And a ticket home.

Grandson (picking his nose):
 - Avon cho. And then?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
We decided that to survive the undead,
But otherwise not survive themselves,
We decided, enough to heat them so undead,
Fool - yes you know, call Yefim,
He said otherwise survive the undead,
Once the smoke.

Grandson (picking his nose):
 - Well duck cho?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
Recently collected vested,
Who can say now - the stupidity?
Church bells
Shimmer on the blade.

Fasted weekly,
Took off his underwear,
Crosses laid wearable ...
And here it is - a true miracle.

Here it is, our action:
Scaring cows with calves,
Angels of Retribution
We got up in the fields of fans.

His wings wrought,
Chase the good news:
Blood, sweat, rubles,
We approached revenge.

Grandson (picking his nose):
 - Vaught cho. And after?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
And after yourself - you understand yourself -
Lighted forests, farms, village.
Yes, damn them, in general, to forests,
Gori, Russia, inhale, the capital!

People were killed, of course, chickens,
Of course, the victims, but how else?
But Moscow did not go away, and from punishment:
And the day of the night sky is black.

Stuck in the ash is now their "Bentley»,
Clogged with ashes of their restaurants,
Their bowling alleys, their highways,
Who is drowning in the ashes, look, do not you cop,
Not pidaras whether on television?
Stylist singer?
Humble yourself, the capital - we the ash - a balm for the wounds ...

From the crowd marching separated Moskvich.

Moskvich (timidly):
We've also forest, for example, was in the town of Khimki,
So we treated him lovingly:
On every tree wearing a thong,
Shevchuk sang lullabies bushes and Bono.

How is it possible - to burn the trees?
They are so gentle, like the Kursk Station provincial, pardon me, fool.
By the way, good peyzanin, you are not there for the traveler bread, eggs,
Milk, do not Mangin pas Jour general ICU or crumbs.

Grandfather (hitting Moskvich balalykoy):
Did you not wolves howled,
Staring at Russia from the outside:
"God, how much dust,
Hell, how many are moths! »

They spat in our primordial,
Picking his underwear,
Sculpted vile stories.
Did not you, do not you know, vile,
We cut our icons,
They burned the balalaika?

No city - the mountain where the thief on the thief,
And relaxed eternal bliss,
And brought up in a strange belief:
"Moscow pushes any legs,
Moscow opens any doors! »
So what now stand, naked,
Cheeks, beasts?

Muscovite falls into the dust. Balalaika strings break. You hear the sound quite nasty.

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Source: saltt.ru