Текст песни Михаил Жванецкий - Как шутили в Одессе

A group of people with sad faces and musical instruments. Ahead is the foreman - conductor. Call There is a tenant.
Brigadier (politely lifts his hat): Ai-ya, I've already been told. Such a grief!
Resident: What grief?
Brigadier: Do you have a funeral?
Resident: Funeral?
Brigadier: Rishelievskaya six, apartment seven?
Resident: Yes.
Brigadier: Well?
Resident: What?
Brigadier: Shall we bury?
Resident: Whom?
Brigadier: What does "whom" mean? Who should know better, me or you? Well, don't play the fool, take it out.
Resident: Whom?
Brigadier: I have people. Orchestra. Fifteen people alive. They can kill, slaughter anyone who can't stand it now. Manya, please.
Fat Manya, in socks and men's shoes, hit the plates and looked at his watch.
Tenant: Wait a minute, who sent you here?
Brigadier: How do I know? Maybe you. What should I remember everyone?
An enraged Trombone takes off from the team.
Trombone: Misha, there will be something here, or we will smash this halabud to smithereens in half. I am disabled, you know.
Brigadier: Jora, do not torment yourself. People have great sorrow, they want to bargain. Name your price, let's talk like cultured people. You have not heard our sound yet.
Resident: I imagine.
Brigadier: Wait a sec. You will hear our sound - you will take off your last shirt. These people feel the grief of others, as their own.
Resident: I perfectly imagine.
Brigadier: Stand there and listen here. Aunt Manya, I ask for a signal to build. Fat Manya struck at the plates and looked at her watch.
Brigadier (walked the cavalry step): Konstantin, button up, hide your cheeky tattoo with these illiterate expressions. You write something new all the time. If you do not withdraw it, I will remove you from work. Fedor Grigorievich, even though you are a student at the conservatory, perhaps you are even more cultured than us - you know the notes, but this cowboy shirt humiliates you. We, thank God, have a job - the traffic is growing. We only spent fifteen people in July.
Now you, Manya. What do you cook there for lunch, does not interest me, but from you every day it smells of fried fish. Go to the vegetables or we say goodbye. I ask a sad signal.
(The orchestra plays a fantasy in which the funeral march is hardly guessed).
Tenant (applauds): Thank you very much, that's enough. But all this is in vain. Probably someone was joking.
Brigadier: Maybe, but that doesn't concern us. I took fifteen people from work. I don't let the young man finish the conservatory. Madame Zborovskaya threw the farm on a young gangster, so that he was healthy. So you want me to understand the jokes? Calculate, then we laugh all together.
An angry Trombone takes off from the group of musicians.
Trombone: Misha, that you are making a fuss? We give the head and play their own, burn it with fire!
Brigadier: Jora, do not torment yourself. You haven’t stayed for that case yet, why are you nervous again?
Resident: How much is to bury?
Brigadier: With honors?
Resident: Yes.
Brigadier: Take your time?
Resident: Yes.
Brigadier: Five in the face.
Resident: And without a dead man?
Brigadier: Treshka, although it is humiliating.
Resident: Well, agreed. Play, just sing:
in memory of Sigismund Lazarevich and his sister from Chisinau.
(Musicians at the signal Mani begin to play and sing:
"Timeless, timeless ... To whom do you leave us? You are there, and we are here. We are here, and you are there." Behind the scenes shouts, crying, someone suffered).
Brigadier (cheered up): So much for the dead man! The tenant. No, it's just that. This is my neighbor Sigismund Lazarevic. He had a birthday today.