Владимир Маяковский — Уходите, мысли, во-свояси (Домой!)

Ukhodite, mysli, vo-svoyasi.
Obnimis, dushi i morya glub.
Tot, kto postoyanno yasen —
tot, po-moyemu, prosto glup.
Ya v khudshey kayute iz vsekh kayut —
vsyu noch nado mnoyu nogami kuyut.
Vsyu noch, pokoy potolka vozmutiv,
nesetsya tanets, stonet motiv:
«Markita, Markita,
Markita moya,
zachem ty, Markita,
ne lyubish menya...»
A zachem lyubit menya Markite?!
U menya i frankov dazhe net.
A Markitu (tolechko morgnite!)
za sto frankov preprovodyat v kabinet.
Nebolshiye dengi — pozhivi dlya shiku —
net, intelligent, vzbivaya gryaz vikhrov,
budesh vsuchivat yey shveynuyu mashinku,
po stezhkam strochashchuyu shelka stikhov.
Proletarii prikhodyat k kommunizmu nizom —
nizom shakht, serpov i vil, —
ya zh s nebes poezii brosayus v kommunizm,
potomu chto net mne bez nego lyubvi.
Vse ravno — soslalsya sam ya ili poslan k mame —
slov rzhaveyet stal, cherneyet basa med.
Pochemu pod inostrannymi dozhdyami
vymokat mne, gnit mne i rzhavet?
Vot lezhu, uyekhavshy za vody,
lenyu yele dvigayu moyey mashiny chasti.
Ya sebya sovetskim chuvstvuyu zavodom,
vyrabatyvayushchim schastye.
Ne khochu, chtob menya, kak tsvetochek s polyan,
rvali posle sluzhebnykh tyagot.
Ya khochu, chtob v debatakh potel Gosplan,
mne davaya zadania na god.
Ya khochu, chtob nad myslyu vremen komissar
s prikazaniyem navisal.
Ya khochu, chtob sverkhstavkami spetsa
poluchalo lyubovishchu serdtse.
Ya khochu chtob v kontse raboty zavkom
zapiral moi guby zamkom.
Ya khochu, chtob k shtyku priravnyali pero.
S chugunom chtob i s vydelkoy stali
o rabote stikhov, ot Politbyuro,
chtoby delal doklady Stalin.
«Tak, mol, i tak... I do samykh verkhov
proshli iz rabochikh nor my:
v Soyuze Respublik ponimanye stikhov
vyshe dovoyennoy normy...»

Domoy!