T. Shaov: Conversation With The Critic (Разговор с критиком), by Rashpill

Автор
Опубликовано: 3593 дня назад (12 октября 2010)
Редактировалось: 3 раза — последний 10 августа 2013
Играет: Тимур Шаов: Разговор с критиком
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C o n v e r s a t i o n     W i t h     T h e     C r i t i c

English translation by Rashpill, 2010

He came in mad like a killer,
Looking like just from a thriller,
Then he said that he’s my critic
All he wants for me is good,
That my shabby style is boring,
And aesthetically foreign,
I am junk, and he is worrying
So much for people’s mood!

He was angry that I’m loudly,
Headstrong and very ugly
Without any struggling
Singing dirty word “orgasm”
“You are not a simple loser,
You’re morality abuser,
You’ll be punished, prosecuted,
And expelled from among us!

Being ashamed, I started groaning,
Beg for mercy and for grace,
I was thinking: “Hell, what’s going?
Why he’s making such a face?”
He was burningly impulsive,
He was trying to insult:
“You are probably a nudist,
That your glasses cannot hide!

You must sing about forest and a storm,
And how we like our camps and our marching,
But you – you act like a maleficent tapeworm
Inside of our poor afflicted culture!

Our Culture – our Multure
Culch-Culch-Culch-Culch,
Mulch-Mulch-Mulch-Mulch.

I’m bad and I am guilty,
I shot Lennon, stole D’ Vinci,
I have knife eleven inches,
Just don’t sentence me to death.
I was bombing in Korea,
I was having gonorrhea,
Round the globe and everywhere
I’m in charge for all the mess!

After liqueur or a lacquer
I am writing like a hacker,
Base of our mother Culture
I am scratching with the pin,
Liar, slanderer, defector,
Child molester devil’s lector,
Dear lambs, I’m Doctor Lecter,
You are welcome to walk-in!

If bards’ heaven is somewhere
I will never get so high.
If bards’ hell is down there,
I’ll be burnt there when I die,
But bards’ heaven is like camping,
All is free, including dame,
Tea is sweet, mosquitoes – gentle,
And all songs about the same:

How great is the campfire by the tent,
And we are praising every living creature!
O’r fathers lead us to the triumph of Am
All other chords are rebels by the nature!

That enraged caretaker
Of the puritan song making,
For my songs that are so flaky
Put a penance onto me:
You must now write on your own
One hundred twenty poems
All about camps and forests,
With your blood instead of ink!

I thought: “Well, you got me, partner!
What you’d really commit?
Are you playing Jimmy Carter,
Blaming my apartheid?”
It was hard to keep my soul,
Patience soon got out of stock,
I said loudly: ”Asshole!”
Then he fainted like a log.

<...>

But for spite of him I’ve written once,
How one beautiful and loving pair
In the forest, tent, and by the fire
Got a really wonderful orgasm!
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