There’s this fellow — Timur Shaov. One of his songs has latched onto me and just won’t let go, the wretched thing.
In the beginning was the Word, time passed.
God created beer, woman, and the Earth,
And God saw that it was good.
He had the village specifically in mind.
God ordained that we should dwell in villages.
I carry out the Lord's commandments in my life.
Our village is like the Garden of Eden:
I drift, I groove, I vibe, I'm blown away.
My little village, three small windows.
Come on over to me, my little kitten!
Here, with God's help, we grow beets,
Carrots, onions, potatoes of all kinds,
Dill, parsley — and what parsnip we have here!
Even Boris Leonidych himself would be proud!
The women here are full of natural fire,
No Freudian complexes — honest to God!
And at full gallop, maybe not a horse,
But a man she'll stop for sure!
My little village, trousers full of patches.
Come on over to me, my sweetheart!
Even the local small-time crooks here
Are more decent than the capital's decadents.
People here are simpler, they eat bread-and-water in the morning
And don't shove their intellect in your face.
And yes, the men here drink a lot —
That's so the soul doesn't grunt, but sings.
At least our coachmen
Don't freeze in the steppe, taking a nip for warmth
My little village, little tail with a tassel.
Come on over to me, my little feminist!
The scent of manure here is a symbol of purity,
For the connoisseur — more pleasant than Chanel.
We grow out of manure like flowers,
Like Leo Tolstoy from Gogol's "Overcoat."
For city folk, manure is just "crap" —
But here, for every kilogram of dung
There falls a pearl of grain.
Everyone here wears necklaces, like Papuans.
My little village, underfinanced.
Come on over to me, emancipated one!
What kind of life is there in the city? Not life — a prison!
Crowds, cops, cars, heaps of garbage,
Stench, racket, stress, prostitutes, MMM,
The boss is a rat, work is lousy, friends are Judases.
The tap water is copper sulfate,
The neighbors are vermin to the fifth generation.
Neurosis, arthrosis, thrombosis, leukosis, diarrhea —
The diseases of the urban population!
My little village, down-at-heel.
Come on over to me, my poor dear!
Leave the stinking city smog behind,
Come to us — your carriage awaits, your carriage!
Here there is a corner for the wounded soul,
Here a poet has something to drink and to eat.
Without Kashpirovsky, nature will heal you:
Grey hair turns black again, scars on the skin fade,
Potency grows, as does your belly and appetite,
Everything that can grow grows in size.
My little village, horseradish with parsley.
Come on over — and not alone, but with a girlfriend!
But the union of city and village is a disgrace!
So that sailors may trample our virginity!
The village, dear friends, is no trifling matter,
The village is the quintessence of morality!
You live so here — coarse-spun and simple,
Putting on a peasant coat and a rope for a belt.
You walk in bast shoes — there's your Tolstoy!
You dash off a novel — like a woman throwing herself under a train.
My little village, drinks on payday.
Why won't you come to me, you pampered creature!
The steppe mare treads down the feather-grass,
All the Scythians are squint-eyed with a hangover.
July, grasshoppers, the midday dust,
And the old God snores beneath the icons.
In the village your soul is cleansed,
The village sublimates space.
And there's good potatoes here too,
And I love them with melted butter.