Dear sir TV show anchor, We, Kanatchikov farm faction, Were on pins and needles, waiting For last Saturday TV. Hence, instead of dining, washing, Being jabbed and lastly flopping, Patients of a loony hospice Flocked before a TV screen. There, a balderdash inflamer Chewed the scenery, semaphored, Blaming scholars for a failure To reveal Bermuda core. Got our brains to go to pieces, Got our gyri interweaved, And Kanatchikov farm seers Were prescribed an extra needle. Dear sir TV show anchor, How, perchance, about reactors Or our favored lunar tractors? It’s no good, a whole year round, To appall us by maligning Saucers, as you put it, flying! Now you have your dog heads barking, Now you have your ruins sound... We are skilled at least in something: We break saucers all year through, We know dog mince not our onions, If the chef cook tells the truth. As for all the piles of cures, The canny flash them down the pan. Mighty rich! And wham, Bermuda! There you are, ‘t won’t do like that! We did not kick up a racket: We were lacking proper captains. Raving lunatics are scanty, Hence good caps are in demand. But we have got supplies of dragnets To encounter lies and frame-ups, And all the schemes of our defamers, Aimed to cook our goose, are damned! It is their revolting trolls who Bermuddle waters in our mere, All this was made up by Churchill As far back as sixty years. We thought up a TASS demurral On disasters and wild fires, Suddenly assistants burst in And had us all immobilized. Those who were unduly lively Were tied safely up by towels; Writhing crank foamed at the mouth, Like a shaman in a trance: "Disentowel us! - he bellowed, - Filthy bigots, rotten devils, We’re bermuddy in the temples And bermoody in the heart" Forty psyches wailed in relays, Getting white-hot all at once. This was how three-sided business Put us out of countenance! Almost everyone went off top, Even those who were insane, In the end, Margulis, head doc, Disallowed a TV set. There he looms up, at the back door With a plug behind his back, dog. Makes a sign to someone, therefore An attendant’ll break the wires. And we have got to get injected, Plunging down an endless well and Disappearing in the well, like In Bermuda deep, for life. Well, and kids will ask us later, Visiting the ward next day: "Will you kindly tell us, Daddies, What’s that your head shrinkers say." We’ll be honest with our offspring, They are keen to know the truth: ’Some amazing stuff is close by, But the access is refused!’ Yonder private dentist Rudik Has a radio set, Grundig, Every night, in bed, he tunes in To West Germany, maroon. He was there for secondhand gear, Very soon went off his head ’here. And was brought extremely bothered, With abdominal disorder And a ticket on a foot. He rushed in, extremely restless, And amazed us with a buzz That our ocean research vessel Stuck within the triangle bounds, Vanished, having spent the fuel, Went to pieces all at once. Anyway, a local trawler Rescued two our crazy bros. Who outlived the cataclysm, Still remained in pessimism. Lately, two abducting prisms Were transported to our ward And one of them, an operator, Having fled from caretakers, Said Bermuda polyhedron Was the navel of the World. "What was there? How did you beat it?" - Each and everybody bugged. Operator only shivered, Dashed about and asked for butts. He would whimper, he would titter, He would bristle up and hog - He would positively tease us. Well, a psychotic, after all. A disturber, rude and ill-bred, Former dipsomaniac, reared up: "We’re to drink the dratted triplet! Drink the triangle in three!" Getting turbulent, he sputtered: "Shall the triangle be drunk up, Be ’t a parallelogram, shit, Be ’t a circle, sordid flea!" Broadcast oversees, the "Voices" Strike deep chords in our sick hearts. Bad, we don’t jam their broadcast! Bad Israelis are not barred: Due to their destructive essence, They subvert and bring us harm - They try to fob us off with nonsense, Squarely spinning occult yarn! Dear sirs TV show makers, Putting folk in agitation Through delivering them lectures On misfortunes in some way, You had better choose ill-omened, Since all this Bermuda nonsense Will make scientists non-compos, And us, insane, about-face. Well, the thought may sound like crazy, Anyway, don’t rush events. Answer us when you are ready, Contact through head doc’s address. Yours sincerely, date, sign manual... We’re expecting your response. Should we not receive your mail, then We will contact bingo Sport.
© Vyacheslav Chetin. Translation, 2013