The Road
On the road you meet people
Of different statuses, roles and fates.
They drive toward their fate,
Each on their own unique steed.
They appear, flash by like an instant,
Tomorrow you'll forget their face.
Tomorrow you'll meet new crowds of people,
But you won't find differences in the new ones.
Someone rushes to a meeting, to the dacha,
Or simply burns gasoline,
Like that blond looking around in an Eclipse,
A second later neatly cut off
By an idiot in a nameless little car.
Unable to bear the insult, the blond sped off snorting,
And striving to prove he has honor,
Shouts good tidings out the window.
No, he doesn't get into such squabbles,
The owner of a Jeep Cherokee.
He's a serious guy, of course, with a belly,
With papers, a laptop and other valuable cargo.
And a whole horde of snotty kids,
Future mayors, rectors and cone sellers,
Impatiently waiting at home for daddy,
Bringing each a whole wad of bills.
And therefore, the uncle's main concern is only one -
Work, then the kids, well, and what's left for the wife.
And he has no time to wait in vain,
Which means running a red is justified for him.
On the contrary, there's no point in hurrying anywhere
For the owner of a Bentley, outwardly Mrs. Burda.
Painted mug, lips thicker than a knee,
Silicone inserts - in short, just a log.
The cutie knows - she's a queen.
Everyone else is nobody, the dull offspring of Adam and Eve.
"They scurry under the wheels, brainless creatures,
I just hope I'm not late for the solarium today!"
She has only one job,
And she's already done it today.
She got her Bentley in installments,
On condition she'd be a good girl with a rich big guy.
In a day, by the number of stressful situations,
Body movements and brain operations,
No one compares with him - an octopus, but two-armed, one of ours.
He'll shortchange you, run a red,
Pick people up, cut someone off, bounce away.
He spins the radio station briskly
And won't forget to crack a joke to the passenger.
Nothing gets to him, he's a tough guy,
Yes, you guessed it, the marshrutka driver is all right!
Of course, always and everywhere the center of attention,
The hero of the night streets, hidden in the gloom,
He's a terror soaring on wings of luck,
He's a gop on a bike.
Stunning!
"Hey, bro, got anything?
Puffing away, poor thing? Well, never mind.
Your time will come too, live, hope,
And you'll become the owner of a "Geisha" moped.
Whoa, and who's this, is she for real?
Svetlana Loboda smoking in a Lambo?
She finally squeezed her salary for her tracks out of the producer.
Oh, Svetochka, you're Sveta.
Loboda.
I must be polite,
Hey, censored!
I'm a simple guy,
I have a Kosmich,
"My Shaggy One" is his nickname.
I don't care about all of them,
About these, about those,
I love the road.
I love my steed.
Iron, strong, carrying me.
And we're all different, but in something we're one.
We need to live!
Go in our own lane, despite the others.