The Road
On the road you meet people
Of different statuses, roles and fates.
They ride 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 any new differences.
Someone races to a meeting, to the dacha,
Or just burning up gasoline,
Like that blond guy glancing around in the 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 at us from the window.
No, he doesn't get into such squabbles,
The owner of a Jeep Cherokee.
He's a serious fellow, of course, with a belly,
With papers, a laptop and other valuable cargo.
And a whole horde of snotty kids,
Future mayors, rectors and pine cone sellers,
Impatiently waiting at home for daddy,
Bringing each a whole wad of bills.
And so, the uncle's main concern is only one -
Work, then the kids, well, and with what's left - 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.
Face made up, lips thicker than a knee,
Silicone inserts - in short, just a log.
The cutie knows - she's a queen.
Everyone else - nobody, the dull offspring of Adam and Eve.
"Darting under the wheels, brainless creatures,
I 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 that 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 to him - the octopus, but two-handed, our own.
He'll shortchange you, run a red,
Pick people up, cut off, dart away.
He briskly spins the radio station
And won't forget to crack a joke for the passenger.
Nothing bothers him, he's a tough fellow,
Yes, you guessed it, the marshrutka driver is doing fine!
Of course, the center of attention always and everywhere,
Hero of the night streets, hidden in the gloom,
He's a terror soaring on the wings of luck,
He's a gop on a bike.
Splendid!
"Hey, bro, got any?
Puffing away, poor thing? Well, no worries.
Your turn 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 out of the producer
her salary for her tracks.
Eh, Svetochka, you're Sveta.
Loboda.
I must be polite,
Hi there, censored!
I'm a simple guy,
I have a Kosmich,
"My shaggy one" - that's 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 have to live!
Go in our own lane, regardless of others.