Wince, Critic! (To A. Troitsky)

The rock critic Poludvoitsky loved, as the day drew to a close, As soon as the sun disappeared, to mount his horse— A winged creature by the name of Pegasus. A fine lash whipped from cheap, snide phrases. He buries rock - the magazine false prophet He buries rock - the magazine false prophet He buries rock - the magazine false prophet AAAAA With his typewriter across our heads, Rhythmically, like a club, he hammered in the evenings. In his articles about music, there is such "depth", And the critic drowns everyone whose music can be heard. About three hundred portions Of good, cheeky curses We unanimously send To the publicist....