so i worked at a school, at a school for working youth, on zhukova street, on the vybsk side, and taught russian language literature, naturally, my sleeves were stained with chalk, how so? it turned out that you were scolded, on the one hand, the soviet government scolded and the soviet press scolded, on the other hand, a lot was published, i can say why, now i’ll read it and you will understand, after all, i feel confident, and so as not took possession of my soul for a while , they will blind me with two things... my friend, two things, let them try to confuse me, i’m not busy with two things, i’ll risk comparing myself to a swallow in the sense that i fly with two wings, hold me, airy stream, i glance, i wonder who is clumsy here. and i’m not the one who drives the pen and presses the chalk, and if someone standing behind me pounces and hits him with a wing, i’ll say this, you’ll fuck with me, i have two things to do, my friend , two things to do, of course, i couldn’t be called a tuniyan , that’s the whole secret, at the dacha... where a river to a field, to a bush at my shoulder, th