Читаем Любит? не любит? Я руки ломаю полностью

В газетах               пишут                         какие-то дяди,что начал                любовно                              постукивать дятел.Скоро          вид Москвы                              скопируют с Ниццы,цветы создадут                         по весенним велениям.Пишут,            что уже                        синицыоглядывают гнезда                              с любовным вожделением.Газеты пишут:                       дни горячей,налетели               отряды                           передовых грачей.И замечает                  естествоиспытательское око,что в березах                      какая-то                                    циркуляция соков.А по-моему —                      дело мрачное:начинается                   горячка дачная.Плюнь,            если рассказывает                                          какой-нибудь шут,как дачные вечера                              милы,                                        тихи.Опишухотя б,            как на даче                               выделываю стихи.Не растрачивая энергию                                        средь ерундовых трат,решаю твердо                       писать с утра.Но две девицы,                         и тощи                                     и ряб`ы,заставили идти                          искать грибы.Хожу в лесу-с,на каждой колючке                               распинаюсь, как Иисус.Устав до того,                       что не ступишь на ноги,принес сыроежку                            и две поганки.Принесши трофей,еле отделываюсь                           от упомянутых фей.С бумажкой                    лежу на траве я,и строфы                спускаются,                                    рифмами вея.Только           над рифмами стал сопеть,                                                     и —меня переезжает                           кто-то                                      на велосипеде.С балкона,                 куда уселся, мыча,сбежал            во внутрь                             от футбольного мяча.Полторы строки намарал —и пошел              ловить комара.Опрокинув чернильницу,                                        задув свечу,подымаюсь,                    прыгаю,                                  чуть не лечу.Поймал,             и при свете                                мерцающих планетрассматриваю —                            хвост малярийный                                                           или нет?Уселся,            но слово                          замерло в горле.На кухне крик:                         — Самовар сперли! —Адамом,              во всей первородной красе,бегу        за жуликами                             по василькам и росе,Отступаю                 от пары                               бродячих дворняжек,заинтересованных                              видом                                         юных ляжек.Сел       в меланхолии.В голову              ни строчки                                 не лезет более.Два.        Ложусь в идиллии.К трем часам —                           уснул едва,а четверть четвертого                                    уже разбудили.На луже,              зажатой                            берегам в бока,орет        целуемая                        лодочникова дочка…«Славное море —                            священный Байкал,Славный корабль —                                омулевая бочка».

1927

Даешь тухлые яйца!

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Проходная комната. Театр б. Корш


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