Высоцкий - Дорогая передача

Высоцкий - Дорогая передача

[ДенисСапёлкин-йб]

Dearest television programme,
Saturday full of emotion
All the inmates here at Bedlam
to the television flocked;
And instead of eating, washing,
having jabs and gently nodding
All the patients at the madhouse
gathered round the goggle box. As he wrung his hands he babbled,
silver-tongued incendiary,
Of how science can’t unscrabble
the Bermuda mystery.
With his brain pushed to the limit
his grey matter turned to flab
And the bosses of the clinic
gave us all our second jab.With respect, dear programme maker,
would reactors not be safer?
Or your favourite moonraker?
It’s disgraceful, all year now
It’s been pretty terrifying
with these bastard saucers flying,
Then the ruins started sighing,
then the dogs began to howl

Still, at something we’re the top dogs-
we’ve smashed saucers all year long,
And they’re for the real dog’s bollocks
if the cook’s not got it wrong.
Those who’re not such crazy fools flushed
piles of tablets down the loo —
Well, that’s life! But now Bermuda.
What a rotten thing to do!

But we didn’t cause a rumpus —
we’ve no leaders here among us.
Proper loons are few in number,
so there’s no one who can lead.
Still for tricks and crazy chatter
we’ve got nets, thinner and fatter,
And we’re not put off our platters
by our enemies’ intrigues.

The bemuddied pond’s besmirched still
where their skinny imps have been.
It was all thought up by Churchill
in the year 1918.
We sent TASS a memorandum
about fires, about bombs,
Then the nurses with abandon
ran and fixed us good and strong.

Those who wouldn’t take a rest, though,
were all tied up to the bed posts,
And a paranoiac’s mouth foamed
like a warlock at a feast:
«You untie these towels, you vandals,
your religions are new-fangled,
In our hearts we’ve got three angles,
in our souls we’ve got three peaks!»

Forty souls then joined in wailing
till the sound was everywhere —
That’s how much we all were ailing
from triangular affairs.
Everyone began to lose it,
even those whose minds were shot,
Then the head doctor Margulis
went and banned the goggle box.

To the window see him gliding,
that’s a plug that snake is hiding,
He gave somebody the sign then,
so the nurse rips out the leads.
So our jabs are all we’ve got then,
and to sink to the well bottom
Where we’ll disappear, forgotten,
from Bermuda never freed.

Come tomorrow when they visit
all our kids will cock their heads:
«Daddies, tell us please what is it
that those PhD men said?»
To our nearest and our dearest,
who do care, we shall not lie:
«There are strange things happening near us
but they’ve banned them from our sight!»

There’s the self-taught dentist Rudik
with his radio by Grundig;
All night long the traitor tunes it,
finding Germany, the West.
Once he worked there in the rag trade
when he got into a mad state,
And he came here with his nerves frayed,
With a tag upon his leg.

His excitement passed all levels,
and we listened thunder-struck
How our scientific vessel
in the triangle got stuck.
It used all its fuel, fragmented
and was never seen again,
But our brothers, both demented,
were picked up by fishermen.

Those who saw this cataclysm
couldn’t shake their pessimism
And were brought in a glass prism
to our madhouse yesterday.
There was one guy, a mechanic
who had run away through panic
Said the triangle’s the planet’s
open navel, so they say.

«So what happened? How d’you make it?»
we all asked him, crowding round;
The mechanic, who was shaking,
begged for dog ends he could scrounge.
He’d start laughing, he’d start bawling,
then his hackles all would rise;
He was trying to take us all in,
but he’s mad, so no surprise.

An ex-drunk who liked a scandal
and who swore flew off the handle:
«We should drink the damn triangle,
let three people have a dram!»
And he carried on, excited:
«Drink the triangle! Imbibe it!
If it’s parallelepiped,
if it’s circular, goddamn!»

Voices give us palpitations
from a thousand miles away;
We should block Israeli stations
and stamp out the USA.
They cause trouble and abuse us
using all their foreign flair
For they feed us and bemuse us
with news of that secret square!

Dear presenters of the programme,
who whatever’s going on can
Speak of tragedies till no man
can escape feeling afraid,
Make a feature on us sad men
for the triangle will madden
All you scientists and act on
all of us the other way.

Don’t reject our mad idea now
’cos your feelings run red hot —
Hurry, write or call us here now
through that bastard, our head doc!
Yours sincerely, signed and dated,
please respond or you should know
If your answer’s too belated,
we will write to Sport Lotto!