Тимур Шаов - Пегас, Муза и лирический герой
текст песни

Pegasus, muse and lyrical hero

On the side of the cultural process
He breathes freely and can be seen far,
I am sitting in the guise of wild Circassian
I will uncorn the beer with a saber.
And the cultural process proceeds by,
And from there they sing something affectionately.
Above the process are two lovely cherubim.
So beautiful, they just take envy.

There are poets on thoroughbred pegas.
There is a psyche, and Eerterp, and Amur,
With them are ladies in crinolins and atlases,
There is a high culture from a kul.
How they envy me, twitched nervously,
And, holding his noses with scarves, they say:
"Fu, Muzhik, ENFANT TERRIBLE, smells bad,
With this snout, he climbs into our feces.
And play us, Muzhik,
Aine Kleina Nachtmyuzik.
What you cant? Oh, bast shoes
From here this moment! "

My pegas is knitted,
He has a mane from a pacley
And plunged wings,
Kutz tail, like a pistol.
Cheerful disposition, jumps-out,
Will meet the horse - plunge,
He is jackaling in garbage
But actually he is an esthete.

Here is a fruit: neither a horse nor a bird,
Everything would laugh at him, mock.
Other people have Pegasus -
To look any-expensive.
People have Akhalketians,
Rysaki and Kabardians.
Ladies see us with Pegasus,
They start to try again:
"Fu, Muzhik," - immediately into a scream.
Immediately in a cry: "Fu, Muzhik!
Fi, Muzhik! Oh Muzhik! "
Immediately in a cry: "Fu, Muzhik!"

My muse is from the Soviet Union,
I traded beer on the spill earlier,
He calls me "my lousy Karuzo"
And winks, bare shoulders.
He drinks, scandalite, wears tulle dresses.
“What kind of life,” shouts, “they don’t give bunches!”
I’ll go to Mityaev, they pay more there. ”
In vain scares, they will not pick it up there.

My lyrical hero is not lyrical,
He is cynical, my lyrical hero,
He is vicious, not tamed, ironic,
I am kind by myself, and he is something evil.
I am good, quiet, glorious, inconspicuous,
And he is noisy, he was a gylyak and
And all the time he covers the absorber vocabulary,
I have never heard such words.

Well, and since I'm not a classic
Himself erected a parnasik for himself,
Low, two -meter,
And for me just right,
Neat, man -made,
With a wooden restroom,
Table, bench, three birches -
My personal Parnassus.

A guitar lies under the table
And empty glassotar,
On a dry bench
The volume of Freudkin is disclosed.
And we live like in a communal apartment:
Muse in the form of a snoker,
Yes pegas is my tugudumsky,
Yes, my hero is a parasite.
Parasite, parasite,
Oh, a parasite hero!
Oh, my hero parasite
Oh, parasite ...

And in the distance, the Parnasses rise in a ridge,
There are noise by avalanches.
Stanzas are strictly swimming in the black
And above them, sonorous rhymes soar.
And then you sit and look for a rhyme for the word "bottom",
You are going to write "buddy"
These three yell me: "Write - goat!",
They are forced to dance under their pipe.

Here we have a shelter of wretched piitis,
These three write a bullet on the sand
With a noise, swearing: "And your lady is bat!"
Atmosphere, as in a port mess.
Gentlemen, but do we not be cut on the lyre,
To the world something like "Mtsyri" tell?
And Pegasus shouts: what, in FIG, Mtsyri!
You do not see, I bought ace on Mizer.

I would sang sweetly, affectionately
"La-la"-by the type of Baskov,
And so as not to the mother,
And so that we are cherub,
And so that without politics,
So that critics are wept:
"What a lamp of the mind!
And we rot him. "

A mess in my hotel,
Cognac in my inkwell,
The horse jumps, the muse is painted,
The hero went into a binge.
What, damn, prostenters,
Such, damn it, and songs -
Well, what will you write a good
With such a chantrape.
Chantrapa, oh,
With such a chantrape,
Chantrapa, chantrapa,
Chantrapa ...

A fresh breeze is blowing ... and to be honest,
This is the like to like it myself:
Dip your tongue in an inkwell - lovely!
No guys, we do not need to change.
So I will warm my bottom in the sun
And throw a cultural pebble into the process.
Well, who wrinkles his nose there