| Dear transmission!
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| Almost crying on Saturday
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| the whole Kanatchikova Dacha
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| rushed to the TV.
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| Instead of eating, washing,
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| there it is, prick and forget, -
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| all crazy hospital
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| gathered at the screens.
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| He spoke, wringing his hands,
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| rhetoric and troublemaker:
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| about the impotence of science
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| before the mystery of Bermuda.
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| All brains smashed to pieces
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| braided all the twists,
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| and ropeway authorities
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| give us a second injection.
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| Dear editor!
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| Maybe better about the reactor,
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| there, about your favorite lunar tractor?
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| After all, it’s impossible, a year in a row -
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| That plates scare,
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| they say, vile, fly, -
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| then you have dogs barking,
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| then the ruins speak.
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| We have mastered something -
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| we beat the plates all year round,
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| we already ate a dog on them,
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| if the cook does not lie to us.
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| And piles of medicines -
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| we are in the toilet, who is not a fool.
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| This is life!
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| And suddenly Bermuda.
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| Here are those times.
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| It can't be like that!
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| We did not make a scandal -
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| we were missing a leader.
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| There are few real violent ones -
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| here and there are no leaders.
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| But for machinations and nonsense
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| we have networks and nonsense,
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| and not spoil our lunch
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| evil machinations of enemies!
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| These are their thin devils |
| muddy the water in the pond,
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| Churchill came up with this
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| in the eighteenth year.
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| We are talking about explosions, about fires
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| composed a TASS note,
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| but the orderlies rushed
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| and fixed us.
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| Those who were especially fierce,
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| screwed to the backs of the beds,
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| fought in the foam paranoid,
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| like a witcher at a coven:
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| "Untie the towels,
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| infidels, savages,
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| we are heartbroken
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| and Bermuth at heart!
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| Forty souls to fight in shifts,
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| blazed hot.
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| How much to worry
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| triangular cases!
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| Almost everyone went crazy
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| even who was insane,
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| and then the head physician Margulis
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| TV banned.
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| There he is, the snake, looming in the window,
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| behind the back hides the plug.
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| He gave a sign to someone, so
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| paramedic, pull out the wires.
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| And what is left for us, to inject
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| and fall to the bottom of the well
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| and there is an abyss at the bottom of the well,
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| like in Bermuda, forever.
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| Well, tomorrow the children will ask
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| visiting us in the morning:
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| "Dads, what did these
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| doctoral candidates?
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| We will open to our children
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| the truth, they don't care
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| we'll say:
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| "Amazing near,
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| but it is forbidden!”
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| There is a home-based dentist Rudik,
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| Iago has a Grundig receiver, |
| he turns it at night,
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| catches, contra, Germany.
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| He was a merchant there
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| and moved his mind
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| and came to us in a terrible excitement,
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| and with a number on the leg.
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| He came running, extremely excited,
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| and shocked us with a message,
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| like our scientific liner
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| stuck in a triangle.
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| Died, having spent fuel,
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| just fell to pieces
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| and our two crazy brothers
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| taken by the fishermen.
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| Those who survived the cataclysm
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| are in pessimism.
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| Their yesterdays in a glass prism
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| they brought us to the hospital.
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| And one of them, a mechanic,
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| told, having escaped from the nannies,
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| that Bermuda polyhedron
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| - unclosed navel of the Earth.
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| “What was there, how did you escape?” |
| —
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| Everyone climbed and pestered,
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| but the mechanic was only shaking
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| and chinariki shot.
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| He cried, he laughed,
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| then bristled like a hedgehog.
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| He mocked us.
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| Well, crazy, what will you take!
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| A former alcoholic blew up
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| swindler and seditious:
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| “We need to drink a triangle.
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| For three of him, give!
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| Dispersed, and pours:
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| “The triangle will be drunk.
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| If it's a parallelepiped
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| be it a circle, fucking louse!
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| It hurts our souls |
| "Voices" for thousands of miles.
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| We do not silence America in vain,
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| Oh, in vain we do not crush Israel:
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| With all its hostile essence
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| Undermine and harm -
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| Feed, sing us bermoutia
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| About the mysterious square!
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| lecturer from the program
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| Those who somehow
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| Talk about failure
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| And make people nervous
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| Take us, the doomed, -
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| Triangle of you scientists
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| Turns into insane
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| Well, we are the opposite.
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| Let the crazy idea
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| you do not cut in haste!
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| call us soon
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| through the bastard head physician.
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| Yours faithfully. |
| Date, signature...
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| Answer us, otherwise
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| if you don't respond
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| we will write to Sportloto. |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Письмо в редакцию телевизионной передачи "Очевидное-невероятное" из сумасшедшего дома - с Канатчиковой дачи , by - Владимир Высоцкий.