Стою изысканно одетый,
Не смея выглянуть в окно.

Б.Садовский

                                                                                                    Мой друг, товарищ, собутыльник,
                                                                                                    Спешу к тебе своим стихом -
                                                                                                    От старой дружбы подзатыльник
                                                                                                    В автомобиле и верхом.
          
                                                                                                    Антона Палыча не мучай,
                                                                                                    Своим стихом не докучай,
                                                                                                    А если выйдет как-то случай,
                                                                                                    Запомни это невзначай.
          
                                                                                                    А я иду на именины,
                                                                                                    Потом сажусь на берегу.
                                                                                                    Какие чудные картины!
                                                                                                    И ни шиша и ни гу-гу!
          
                                                                                                    Иду вперёд, иду направо,
                                                                                                    И каждый день, и каждый год.
                                                                                                    А тут какая-то канава
                                                                                                    Пересекает переход.
          
                                                                                                    И вот я в луже оказался
                                                                                                    До этих мест, по этих пор.
                                                                                                    Народ конечно посмеялся,
                                                                                                    Перемахнул через забор.
          
                                                                                                    Какой позор, какая мука!
                                                                                                    Какой неслыханный удар!
                                                                                                    Ему судьба моя порука
                                                                                                    И самогон, и скипидар.
          
                                                                                                    Пришёл в театр на представленье,
                                                                                                    Гляжу на сцену - боже мой!
                                                                                                    Какое чудное мгновенье!
                                                                                                    И я бегом спешу домой.
          
                                                                                                    И вот задумал я поэму
                                                                                                    И про любовь, и про Кавказ,
                                                                                                    И про красавицу Елену,
                                                                                                    И про её стеклянный глаз.
          
                                                                                                    Какая боль, какая мука,
                                                                                                    Какой мучительный позор!
                                                                                                    Его пример другим наука,
                                                                                                    А мне - мучение с тех пор.
          
                                                                                                    Родная тётка Лизавета,
                                                                                                    Она давно меня звала
                                                                                                    И говорила мне про это,
                                                                                                    Что, мол, оладьев напекла.
          
                                                                                                    Я съел две дюжины оладьев,
                                                                                                    И что-то грустно стало мне -
                                                                                                    Как будто кто-то там заладил
                                                                                                    Про это дело при луне.
          
                                                                                                    Пишу про лес, пишу про дачу
                                                                                                    И про запор, и про понос.
                                                                                                    И всех читателей дурачу,
                                                                                                    И всех ослов вожу за нос.
          
                                                                                                    Зачем любить и ненавидеть?
                                                                                                    Зачем томиться и страдать
                                                                                                    И для того, чтоб клон увидеть
                                                                                                    Пищеваренье угнетать?
          
                                                                                                    К чему страдания и слёзы?
                                                                                                    Зачем душевный этот жар,
                                                                                                    Когда уже стоят морозы
                                                                                                    И на дворе идёт пожар?
          
                                                                                                    Зачем мужик угробил бабу?
                                                                                                    Зачем он вырвал клок волос,
                                                                                                    Когда совсем уже неслабо
                                                                                                    Его охаживал понос?
          
                                                                                                    Беру билет, куда-то еду.
                                                                                                    Какие чудные места!
                                                                                                    А визави ведёт беседу
                                                                                                    И строит глазки неспроста.
          
                                                                                                    Зачем она меня волнует?
                                                                                                    Зачем мою тревожит кровь?
                                                                                                    И почему она ревнует,
                                                                                                    Когда прошла уже любовь?
          
                                                                                                    Зачем преследует жестоко,
                                                                                                    Отрезать что-нибудь грозит,
                                                                                                    Когда кондуктор одиноко
                                                                                                    Трамвай на рельсах тормозит?
          
                                                                                                    Я выйду в лес и выйду в поле
                                                                                                    И посмотрю на облака
                                                                                                    И говорю: чего же боле,
                                                                                                    Зачем валяю дурака?
          
                                                                                                    Опять какие-то проделки:
                                                                                                    Кому-то в нос, кому-то в глаз.
                                                                                                    Зачем все эти переделки -
                                                                                                    И кислород, и ватерпас?
          
                                                                                                    Зачем, зачем несчастья эти
                                                                                                    Тревожат душу по ночам?
                                                                                                    Зачем балованные дети
                                                                                                    Ко мне залазят на плеча?
          
                                                                                                    Я жить хочу спокойно, смело
                                                                                                    Смотрю на звёзды и луну.
                                                                                                    А мне до них какое дело?
                                                                                                    Я, может, ноги протяну.
          
                                                                                                    Иван Степанович Коробкин
                                                                                                    Сказал, что будет снегопад.
                                                                                                    А он такой, что хуже пробки,
                                                                                                    Чего ни скажет - невпопад.
          
                                                                                                    Начальник мой суровый, строгий,
                                                                                                    Грозит уволить он меня,
                                                                                                    Кричит: болван, осёл безрогий,
                                                                                                    Не потерплю тебя ни дня!
          
                                                                                                    А мне такая блажь до фени,
                                                                                                    Таких придурков я видал.
                                                                                                    Ещё попросит извинений
                                                                                                    За эту склоку и скандал.
          
                                                                                                    Живу легко, какое дело!
                                                                                                    Мне эти дрязги нипочём.
                                                                                                    А если крыша полетела,
                                                                                                    За это можно кирпичом.
          
                                                                                                    Пришёл я к доктору, в аптеку,
                                                                                                    Мне говорят: лекарства нет.
                                                                                                    А что же делать человеку,
                                                                                                    Который вовсе не брюнет?
          
                                                                                                    Меня в больницу положили,
                                                                                                    Нашли во мне какой-то жар,
                                                                                                    Каким-то морсом напоили,
                                                                                                    Сказали: вылечат катар.
          
                                                                                                    Сперва анализ писи, каки
                                                                                                    Потом осмотр, потом опрос.
                                                                                                    Но не хочу я, чтобы паки
                                                                                                    Мне снова быть здесь довелось.
          
                                                                                                    Трубу мне доктор в зад мой вставил,
                                                                                                    Потом совсем наоборот -
                                                                                                    Прибор какой-то переставил,
                                                                                                    Полез ко мне зачем-то в рот.
          
                                                                                                    Мне говорят: плохая кака,
                                                                                                    Мол, человек ты, не свинья.
                                                                                                    А что же делать мне, однако,
                                                                                                    Ведь ГМО питаюсь я.
          
                                                                                                    Сестра сказала: скинь штанишки,
                                                                                                    Ложись скорее на бочок,
                                                                                                    Сейчас тебе прочистим кишки.
                                                                                                    И клизму сунула в зрачок.
          
                                                                                                    И я теперь, совсем, как новый,
                                                                                                    Иду туда, иду сюда,
                                                                                                    Вот только что костыль кленовый
                                                                                                    Меня подводит иногда.
          
                                                                                                    Бегу с трамваем вперегонку,
                                                                                                    Кричу кондуктору: постой!
                                                                                                    А он, каналья, в селезёнку
                                                                                                    Грозит коломенской верстой.
          
                                                                                                    Я не стерпел такого сраму,
                                                                                                    Такой ужасной клеветы
                                                                                                    И запустил в него про маму,
                                                                                                    Чтоб помнил он, кто я, кто ты.
          
                                                                                                    Приехал в Сочи, вышел к морю -
                                                                                                    Какой живительный простор!
                                                                                                    А я давно ни с кем не спорю,
                                                                                                    Я стал как будто дирижер.
          
                                                                                                    И вот теперь лежу на пляже,
                                                                                                    Подставив солнцу телеса,
                                                                                                    Но угнетает мысль, что даже
                                                                                                    Подорожала колбаса.
          
                                                                                                    Жена ругает: где шатался,
                                                                                                    Когда починишь пылесос?
                                                                                                    А я не знаю и не брался,
                                                                                                    Чтоб разрешить такой вопрос.
          
                                                                                                    Пришёл в столовую покушать -
                                                                                                    В тарелке жирный таракан.
                                                                                                    Зову Петровича послушать,
                                                                                                    Что скажет он про сей кан-кан.
          
                                                                                                    Петрович, повар знаменитый,
                                                                                                    Об фартук вытер палец он
                                                                                                    И вынул смело паразита
                                                                                                    И зашвырнул подальше, вон.
          
                                                                                                    Теперя кушай, не стесняйся,
                                                                                                    Рецепт отличный - суп харчо
                                                                                                    И ни о чём не сомневайся -
                                                                                                    Три раза плюнь через плечо.
          
                                                                                                    Директор школы мне сказала:
                                                                                                    Ваш сын балбес - ни ме, ни бе,
                                                                                                    Он не выходит из спортзала,
                                                                                                    Потом играет на трубе.
          
                                                                                                    А как же быть, что делать с Гогой?
                                                                                                    Ведь он любимый отпрыск мой.
                                                                                                    Нет, лучше ты его не трогай,
                                                                                                    И я опять бегу домой.
          
                                                                                                    А дома тёща надоела:
                                                                                                    Побольше денег приноси!
                                                                                                    А мне до них какое дело -
                                                                                                    Мне не хватает на такси.
          
                                                                                                    Я не политик, не технолог,
                                                                                                    Я просто мелкий господин.
                                                                                                    Мне говорят: какой ты олух!
                                                                                                    Ну что ж - пусть буду я один.
          
                                                                                                    И вот, изысканно одетый,
                                                                                                    Смотрю на улицу в окно,
                                                                                                    А там всё рваные газеты,
                                                                                                    И между ними всё оно.
          
                                                                                                    Сижу, закрылся в туалете,
                                                                                                    Сижу и думаю про жисть.
                                                                                                    Мне надоели дрязги эти,
                                                                                                    Хоть помирай и в гроб ложись.
          
                                                                                                    Я не такой, как Жириновский,
                                                                                                    Я не полковник КеГеБе,
                                                                                                    Я знаю, я поэт хреновский,
                                                                                                    Чего желаю и тебе.
          
                                                                                                    Проходят дни, проходят годы,
                                                                                                    Куда спешил я столько лет?
                                                                                                    Зачем все эти переходы?
                                                                                                    На мой вопрос ответа нет.
          
                                                                                                    Уже не будет коммунизма,
                                                                                                    Социализма тоже нет,
                                                                                                    И даже нет капитализма.
                                                                                                    А что же есть, каков букет?
          
                                                                                                    Прощайте, други, было славно
                                                                                                    Мне с вами время проводить,
                                                                                                    Теперь займёмся самым главным
                                                                                                    И без чего нам не прожить.
          
                                                                                                    Ведь на столе уже закуска,
                                                                                                    Лежит солёный огурец -
                                                                                                    Он наша радость, перегрузка,
                                                                                                    Украсил стол, он наш отец!
          
                                                                                                    Уже стаканы наши полны,
                                                                                                    Мы будем пить бригадой всей,
                                                                                                    Чтоб никакие злые волны
                                                                                                    Нас не коснулись в жизни сей.
          

Кожевенное мастерство | Сайт "Художники" | Доска об'явлений "Книги"