Source:
Video:
* * * [Parody to M. Lermontov's] Borodino * * *
Please tell me, uncle, the reason why we
Gave up our Moscow, burnt in fire,
To France back in the eighteen-twelve?
He sighed, and said: "It was expected.
But I would ask from my prospective:
Why the hell we took it back?
* * * The Ballad of the violinist * * *
My dear grandfather, a good old man
Was dreaming that I'd be a great violinist.
And even in distant Milan I
Someday will perform at the concert.
But stupid grandson made hysterical cry,
He always refused to be a violinist.
He wanted to sail in the ocean
With pirates on their old corvette.
Among the sharks, and waves, and seagulls,
He dreamed, he’s standing on the shrouds
As salted slightly tipsy seaman
With smoking pipe in smiling mouth,
Shouting hoarse in the battle:
"On board the ship, guys, go ahead!"
And he is huge, he is one-eyed,
And even wounded in the head.
He dreamed he’s coming from the ocean
Back to the hometown dock,
Being tired, drunk as hell and wounded.
Dream was so real - oh, my God!
When In the port tavern "Riviera"
He strangle a geisha in his arms,
And roar: "You, with violin, there,
Play something soulful for us!"
But years were passing, and no grandpa.
He will no longer be bothering you;
Now, probably he doesn't care,
That his grandson plays in the tavern.
He takes every evening his instrument on,
And tortures the violin, and doesn't care
If tavern drunks like it or don’t:
He is far away, in the ocean!
Among the sharks, and waves, and seagulls,
He dreams, he’s standing on the shrouds
As salted slightly tipsy seaman
With smoking pipe in smiling mouth,
Shouting hoarse in the battle:
"On board the ship, guys, go ahead!"
He is one-legged, he is one-eyed,
And even wounded in the head.
He dreams he’s coming from the ocean
Back to the hometown dock,
Being tired, drunk as hell and wounded.
His dream is real - oh, my God!
When In the port tavern "Riviera"
He’s dying in the geisha’s cling,
And roar: "You, with violin, there,
Play something soulful – I will sing!"
He’ll sing with a violin
That luck is a myth,
How boatswain is always lying…
And lonely, and angry, and sad violinist
Will be playing music and crying...