Текст песни Дмитрий Быков - Трактат

But as for me, everything is quite simple:
In the community, in the crowd, in the handful of people
Ninety percent
Not inclined to behave.
And bonuses, Lord forgive me, -
From courage to creative growth, -
Allowed to ten percent.

Such a percentage, like a golden cut,
Takes place in any weather,
In any nation
Under Caesar, Pilate, Nesselrode,
Under dictatorship, chaos, freedom, -
And has no chance to grow.

Let the humanist lips roll out
In the last four hundred years, -
But ninety tend to be brutes
No ten.
But ten is so reluctant
Live your life under the rule of an idiot
They are so sick of the general yawning
And divination,
They don't want to go to the swamp before,
That their strength will be weighed down by someone
And directs across the head;
As a result, death, stupid and crooked,
Knocks with his forehead on a closed gate
And life goes where it should.

Lem has such a theorem -
More precisely, the lemma, -
Outlined in the book "God's Voice":
It's complicated and somewhat boring
But it's not difficult for me to speak in verse,
And I am now.

There are people on space encryption
Have recreated such a substance
Which, with some skill,
Will leave nothing of the world;
However, God made it so beautiful
That the accuracy of the shot from the force of the explosion
It depends, so to speak, on the contrary:
When you shoot at a specific target -
Explodes silently, barely,
And if you really want a benz -
It will not be known where it will explode.

God, the patron saint of fantasy,
The builder of the earthly hearth,
Here the law of causality is applied
And a lever.
He raised minority opportunities,
And most ambitions have not been delivered.
This is not the law of random numbers,
A cunning plan.

So the law:
When we are half,
It's still calm and innocent.
When there are third of us
Then we are no longer afraid to die.
When there are a quarter of us
No one can kill us anymore
And if there are only one seventh of us,
We have already been given such power
That we are easily capable of putting on everyone
And not to be lost.
When we're down to one tenth
Then we are already chasing everyone,
How can a mustache-striped cat?
Chasing mice.
A cool hundred three powerless elders
They spread easily like fleas
And if someone is left alone for all,
This is God.