Ash

From Moscow, can something be good to us? Is it not for us to the severity of Fleesh, and Dani Grulykia and the Nasal, and Tivnii, and the argument, and the concrete?
The life of Stefan Pemsky.

Dust tract. In the distance - a crafty provincial city like Perm : rotten collapses, cows, goats, a number of giant fans.
On the tract of an endless series are dumbfounded Muscovites.
On the side of the side are grandfather - Ivan Kolpakov , and granddaughters - Kolpakov Vanyatka. Grandfather wrapps in a quilted jacket and thoughtfully sorting out the strings of the balalaika.
Granddaughter smears a snot on the chumaza of the face.

Grandson (picking in the nose):
- Grandfather, who are they - Muscovites? Where are they? What kind of people are like that? What was she - Moscow?

Grandfather (hitting strings):
Many oppressed us, grandson, - Tatars, Mordva,
They beat the whips, hali, as if eat.
But what Moscow was doing with Russia,
Do not see Batu in a terrible dream.

Moscow - like a decaying scab,
Like a purulent abscess.
As if a corpse sat down
On the one who is alive.

Money to Moscow - wagons,
Babs to Moscow - caravans.
The country fought in agony
With twisted pockets.

Unscrewed, disgraced
Greedy Muscovites,
Cried - homelessly
Girl on the pier.

Without leaving the coffee houses
Through tubes through cocktails
Smel away like a hairdryer
Our farms, boiler houses,

The factories swallowed without pressing,
Wrked out with oil.
They left dirt after themselves
In half with death.

Grandson (picking in the nose):
- Duck there it is cho. Well, are you?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
I was in Moscow too. They took rudely.
They took, that is, for some troll.
Feis Control muttered me at the club,
In which there is no face control at all.

They beat the cops later, beaten fun, with songs,
Yes, so diligently that the soul almost flew away.
In general, I had to give half the pension
Just breathe for the right of Moscow air.

And I dreamed, fool,
Cope from Ermes a footcloth with a fringe.
There was only enough money for Doshirak
And a ticket home.

Grandson (picking in the nose):
- Evona Cho. And then?

Grandfather (hitting the strings):
We decided to survive this undead,
Otherwise you can’t survive ourselves,
Decided that enough to warm them and undead,
Fool - Yes, you know, the name is Efim,
Said: otherwise not to survive the undead,
As soon as smoke.

Grandson (picking in the nose):
- Well, duck cho?

Grandfather (hitting strings):
Collected the last, blood,
Who will say now - by stupidity?
Church bells
It was poured onto the blades.

They kept the posts weekly
They took off themselves under the very moment
Crosses laid down ...
And here it is - a miracle genuine.

Here it is, our act:
Scared cows with calves,
Angels of retribution
Fans stood in the fields.

They waved their wrought iron wings
They drove the good news:
Blood, then, CLECOM
We brought revenge closer.

Grandson (picking in the nose):
- Vota cho. And after?

Grandfather (hitting strings) :
And after yourself - you understand, yourself -
They lit forests, farms, villages.
Yes, the devil would, in general, with the forests,
Gori, Russia, inhale, capital!

People died, of course, chickens,
Of course, victims, how else?
But Moscow from Kara did not leave:
And during the day their sky is blacker than the night.

They are stuck in Peple now their "Bentley",
Their restaurants are clogged,
Their kerelbans, their autobahns,
Who is drowning in ashes, look, is it not a cop,
Is there a fagot from the television screen?
Stylist, singer?
Smile off, the capital, -
This ashes are to us - balm for wounds ...

Muscovite is separated from the crowd of those who go.

Moskvich (timidly):
We also have a forest, for example, I was in the city of Khimki,
So we treated him lovingly:
Thongs were put on each tree,
Lullabies sang Shevchuk and Bono to the bushes.

How can this be burned?
After all, they are as gentle as the Kursk station provincial, sorry, durechi.
By the way, a good Pisanin, you will not have a bread, eggs for a wanderer,
Milk, but there is no manage in the sis zhur at all crumbs.

Grandfather (hitting Muscovite with a balalaika):
Didn't you howl wolves
Staring at Russia from the will:
“God, how much dust
Devil, how much pray! "

Spat in our original,
Picked under the very slow
The vile stories were sculpted.
Weren't you, aren't you, vile,
Chopped our icons,
Balalaiki burned?

Not a city - a grief where a thief on a thief,
And everyone is relaxed in the eternal bliss,
And everyone was brought up in a strange faith:
“Moscow spreads any legs
Moscow opens any door! "
So what are you standing now, Nagi,
Sculpt, animals?

Muscovite falls into dust. The strings of the balalaikas are torn. A rather nasty sound is heard.