Lyrics Александр Башлачев - 1985.02-09 - Егоркина былина

How bonfires burn at Sheksna - rivers
How the tents of the brisk fair stand

Gypsy arc
no pity
I give my painted shawl
And she has no price - a quarter ticket
It's a pity for a quarter - well, come on a penny
Spared a penny - take it for it
painted shawl

Everything as it is, smoothly embroidered on it
smoothly embroidered with a small cross
How Yegor sits in a light chamber
In a bright room with curtains
With a bright electric chandelier
On a silver-covered bench
embroidered felt
next to the white stone stove
importantly squinting
catches heat with his hand.

On the stove is his rag-sweatshirt
Adapted
Yes, the shit with earflaps was adjusted
Yes, the stench-footwear was attached
in the light chamber
with curtains yes with dignity
Egor is waiting for guests.
And guests to him - absolutely the yard.
Absolutely - a courtyard and three streets.
- Happy Holidays to you
And we wish you well-being,
Dear Egor Ermolaevich,
Smoothly embroidered with a small cross
smiling stately
he drinks and has a snack
and eating a salted mushroom with one hand
and on the other hand - pickled
and cherry cream only licks
only licks off bitter soot
sticky soot
rubs rolls
bits of bricks.

the glass will ring in the through wind
let the ringing turn sour in the viscous soot
yes it will be covered with young ice
the moon will float in black oil
in the winter twilight
in wolf holidays
dark doom
everything will perish.
where everyone is punished without trial
where everyone is smeared with grease
where everyone is poisoned by one world.
but what kind of world is there - all the outskirts,
where thick dirt is stored for future use,
stuffed into the mouth,
where the ligature of restless lines smokes,
like holy droppings
where is the japanese god with our mother
married by the common porch,
images of the whip are crossed.

- Eh, Yegorka, you son of a crack!
Eh, Yegor, child of the head,
Lice from under the nail - into drinking companions.

In a cut of red bean with cobwebs
Burn out, candle!
Burn out, a candle - a half-and-a-half tail!

A rash-perspiration will be chipped,
and again Egor is a pure master
in a bright chamber,
sewn with a cross,
everything talks to astronauts,
but kisses - with Tereshkova,
with popular yes with actresses -
everything with angry barn rats.

- It's not just a tat, not a sweatshirt,
then my soul is awkward
all smoked in vain
unbuttoned all prisoner ...
- It's not just a shit, not an earflap,
then my fate is lop-eared
out - full of holes, wasted by pain,
wasted on other people's humps ...
- It's not just a stench - a pitch stench
then my sins, drunken fights ...

Yegor spoke, took the footcloths.
Then the chorus came out with a gypsy,
The famous choir of the House of Radio
and Central Television,
under humane control got up.

- You play me a ringing song!
Deploy the mortar march!
Guess you me, melodious creature,
Black eyes, burning eyes,
tell me fortunes by my empty hand,
on an empty hand and abrasions,
on calluses and on living scars ...

- Dear Egor Ermolaevich,
Zimogor you are our Okhlamonovich,
you have worn out your soul
to full holes,
so take an expensive uniform for that
general rank, quilted with cotton wool,
with an honest star and medals ...
Tore up fate, gnawed at the strings,
so take an expensive cap for that
with a fashionable lacquered trump card,
with fur lined and with a cockade ...

And for the fact that the sin erased the footcloths,
wrap your bare heels
in a painted shawl off my shoulder
all embroidered with a small cross ...

Yegor looked at his rags
And put on the uniform ...

Suddenly light shadows danced,
rusty hinges suddenly creaked,
Opening the locks with the Thunderstaff,
in a white shroud
Snezna Grandma ...

- You, Yegorushka, kind fool,
collect me with an ice bucket
clear and cold drops ...
- You blow, Yegor, into the dark stove,
let the ash fly
the ash is spinning
in an ice bucket, in a sweet puddle,
knead the gruel with your live hand
Yes, feed me - Snezhnu Granny ...