Текст песни Владимир Маяковский - Сергею Есенину

You've gone,
        as the saying goes,
                      in a different world.
Emptiness ... Fly, into the stars crashing.
You have no advance, no beer. Sobriety.
No, Yesenin, this is not a mockery.
In the throat of a mountain, a lump is not a laugh.
I see - with a slashed hand,
Own bones swing the bag.
"Stop it!"
Give it up!
Are you in your right mind?
Writing, to fill your cheeks with a deadly chalk ?!
You know how to bend such a thing,
that another in the world could not.
Why? What for? The confusion crumpled.
Critics mutter:
- This wine
This and that...
and most importantly, that the bows are small,
as a result of a lot of beer and wine.
Say, you would be replaced by a class,
class influenced you, and it was not until fights.
Well, does the class thirst for kvass?
Class - he also does not drink a fool.

Say, to you would put
whom of the outposts - have become a content
a great gifted.
You would write a hundred lines per day,
Tired and long, like Doronin.
But in my opinion, realize such a nonsense,
they would have put their hands on themselves before.
It's better to die of vodka than from boredom!
Do not open to us the reasons for the loss
neither a noose, nor a penknife.
Maybe it's the ink in the Angleterre,
There were no reasons to cut veins.

Imitators were delighted: encore!
Above him, almost a platoon committed reprisals.
Why increase the number of suicides?
It is better to increase the production of ink!
Forever the tongue is now in the mouth.
It is difficult and inappropriate to breed mysteries.
The people, the linguist,
died sonorous drummer apprentice.
And they carry poems for the funeral scrap,
from the past from the funeral
not altered almost.
In the hill blunt rhymes
drive a stake -
Do you think that the poet should be honored?

You and the monument is not yet merged, -
where he, the bronze clang
or granite face?
And to the gratings have already been brought
dedications and memories of rubbish.
Your name
in kerchiefs SOLD,
your word
slobbering Sobinov
and outputs
under the birch dead -
"Not a word, oh my friend, not a sigh-o-o-o-ha."
Ah, to talk otherwise
with this very same Leonid Lohengrinich!
Get up here rattling brawler:
"I will not let you mumble the verse and crumble!"
Stunned by their three-toed whistle at grandmother's
and in God the soul of a mother!

To spread the most untalented trash,
Blowing up the dark suits of sailors,
To scatter in full Kogan,
Met with mutilated mustache pins.
Trash so far \\ little has thinned.
It's a lot of things - just keep up.
We must first redo the life,
remaking - you can chant.

This time is difficult for the pen,
but tell me, you, cripples and cripples,
where, when, what great chose
way to protoptney and lighter?
The word is the commander of human strength.
March! That the time behind the nuclei was torn.
To the old days, so that the wind
Only confusion of hair.
For the fun of our planet is little equipped.
It is necessary to wrest joy from the days to come.
In this life it is not difficult to die.
Make a living
much more difficult.