Song about the mental clinic
I told myself:-- you mustn't write!
But stubborn hands will not comply,
Oh, help me mother! Friends-- I’m in a fix!
I lie in bed -- they grin at me,
They might attack me terribly,
I’m scared to sleep: they’re noiseless, hopeless freaks.
The psychos vary here, and sure,
Not all are rowdy, some impure,
Receiving treatment -- getting starved and beat,
But here is what surprises me:
These madmen here are walking free,
And all the food that I receive, they simply take and eat.
Great Dostoyevsky’s fallen short
With the renowned, famous “Notes”!
I wish the poor deceased could come and see!
The famous Gogol I could tell
Such stories of this life in hell
That sure to God, this Gogol would most-boggled be!
Can’t stand this! Spit on those baboons,
‘cause after all, they’re rowdy loons!
They always aim to lick me on my face!
In number seven, yesterday,
Some loon, in utter disarray -
Just yelled, “America!” and stormed around the place.
I don’t want fame, and just for now,
I’m still remaining sane somehow,
I’ve yet to lose my head, but that’s my fate.
Here is the chief, -- the woman nurse,
She’s just a little crazed of course,
I yell that I am going mad and she just tells me: “Wait.”
And I am sensing while I wait,
I’m walking on a sharpened blade,--
Forgot the alphabet, -- my language’s Greek to me!
And I am asking friends mine this
Whoever I’m of theirs is
Of him, to take, his, me away from outtahere!
By Vladimir Vysotsky
Translation by Andrey Kneller