Alexander Sergeevich woke up with a headache. I remembered yesterday's hiss of frothy glasses, punch flames of blue. The sun of Russian poetry was sick.

- Arina, bitch, serve kvass!

Arina Rodionovna began to pull on Pushkin pantaloons. Pantaloons did not stretch: whether a joke - the third day without women.

- Hey, Arina, find me thicker in Trigorsky Moloduha, so that you don’t really feel like it.

- Have mercy, sir, how can? On the third day Countess Anna Pet-Smooth was pleased, with God's help, five times. You deigned to drive me into a cold bath, and I heard it there too - their excellency shouted deign to shout. I don’t know what you did to her there.

- Shut up, you fool, this is not your business. I will go to the village, look at the mowing, maybe, what a woman I will meet.

- What a mowing, sir, still green not eared.

- Baba, she always looks up.

Pushkin went to Trigorskoye, towards - two men with braids.

“However,” thought the beacon, “it's the tenth hour, and they are only at work.”

- How to call, bastards?

- Fedorka Kovalev and Mikhailov Ivashkin, sir.

- I heard. Warden reported. Do not lose weight. The arrears are yours.

- Duc difficult weather conditions ...

- Do not fig me to hang noodles on my ears. Say to the headman - the master ordered forty of them each.

- Have mercy, sir, for forty we can not stand.

“Well then fifty.”

“And what,” thought the classic, “they will sit here on my neck and I am ashamed to say that I cannot buy a simple diamond stake.”

A young woman walked past with two baskets of manure.

- Hey, whose are you? - Pushkin grabbed the woman by the chest.

- Take it easy, sir, my husband is literate, a lady in Petersburg will write off.

- So the lady and believe slander of Russian literature. Shut up, and then I order to shave your husband in the soldiers.

Pushkin began to tear the skirts on the woman, she squealed.

- Eh, mobile! You would know who you are dealing with. Poet, do not value the love of the people.

- So who does not know you? When you are walking around the village, men hide their wives, daughters, old women and goats in the cellars. Anke Semenova fifteen was not, as you deceived her deceived. And the lady, I suppose, they wrote about love.

- Fool! I'm Pushkin!

- For me - even Gorky, but do not let go. Oh, yes you are not upaseshsya, won the Mikhailovsky, Honor, all rebyatnya curly, nigger yes verses matyukatsya.

- Well, you tryndet - Pushkin said, putting the woman cancer.

The light shone to the woman of the skirt on her head, so as not to hear the squeal, but it did not help.

“That's what the people brought tsarism to,” the poet closed his left eye for the sight, “they do not know Pushkin.” The self-denying villain, so that you would die ... Squeal like a little pig. I already finished a long time, and she squeals.

Screeching verse. Out from behind the clouds, the sun gently gleamed on a woman's ass. Baba froze with skirts thrown over her head. Suddenly, from under the skirts, I heard deafly:

- Sir, and once more do not deign?

- Once, I finish the eighth chapter. Come on Friday. No, on Friday I have Countess Vorontsov. Come on Saturday morning.

“Yes,” thought the poet, “there are still women in Russian villages.” Horse running will stop. So can you not be a poet, and this business is obliged to know. Otherwise, what a man you are. Oh, and confusion with these high-class skits, then confess them in love, then verses to the album. Vaughn, while Anka Kern uboltal, what a masterpiece nakaryabal! Look, it's like when itches. Yes, how many were there at the age of fourteen! Kalmyk, Georgian, gypsy, Moldavian. Married and maidens, widows and orphans. There are more, good, professors, impotent, will become about me scientists lists - when, with whom and how many times. Something I today did not create anything brilliant. So, everything is outstanding ... And to Fugan, I have something, immortal, so that children in schools for two hundred years would suffer to learn from memory

My uncle of the most honest rules

When not in joke ill,

I decided to go to Israel -

And it was better not to invent.

Well? And let someone dare to say that I am compared and transcended.

The Jew requires seventy-five thousand on the bill, and where to get it? One hope - maybe a self-domineering villain will pay. Natalia, too ... imagined herself a bitch, for which males run, lifting the tail with a tubule ... Wow, I got up again. I will go to the yard girls.

... Pushkin went to Trigorskoye.