Борис Бурда - Журнал
текст песни

Today is fashion for magazines,
Their circulation increases.
Previously, everyone had enough
And now that give me a little,
All with an unprecedented scale
It disappears like a mirage.

Instantly, like the sign of the magician,
Tom evaporates.
Who was waiting for such zigzags -
On Soviet paper
Smuck "Dr. Zhivago"

And the thunder did not burst?

Everyone printed something -
To prove that he is not a coward.
All that the writer hid in the table
In the end of the sixties,
Accumulated by condensate,
And now they opened the gateway.

There is a darkness of questions:
My friend is very surprised -
Who will return the hours of interrogation
That by vile denunciation
He went on what we wear
Today is the postman in the bag?

Retired in a considerable rank
I settled over the article, put on:
"So write - and not about Chile?
Okay, we slipped through
And the successor to the lord
Let them give properly. "

Howled, longing along the routine,
Member of the Union - Laureate:
"I would not be so reptile
I wrote in a similar style,
Only I was forbidden,
What will they not ban them? "

For the success of innovations -
Impressive percentage.
Only the magazine "Our Contemporary",
Last years dense prisoner,
Looking for who whose fellow tribesman
And who is an alien element.

Choose a better one
Subscribe for the full time.
After all, such things will go
That then you get to the pen
And dump half a half
For a magazine number.

But peas a crankcase,
The heart is to smash the heart,
Something will blaze: "Here is careless!
You decided - it will be so forever? "
I feel bad, of course ...
And do not believe - how to live?

It will not arrive from magazines
What to wear and what to eat.
Maybe ... but if people
Mind and conscience will not wake up
We will not have a damn thing!
In the meantime, there is hope.