Classical ballet has a beauty castle,
whose gentle tenants from the harsh prose days
scrape pit orchestra
separated. And battened down bridges.
The Imperial Soft Plush we squeeze butt,
and, krylyshkuya cursive thighs,
beauty, with whom do not go to bed,
one leap dart into the garden.
We see the forces of evil in a brown tights,
and the angel of goodness in unspeakable pack.
And the power to awaken from hibernation Elysian
ovation Tchaikovsky and Co..
Classical ballet! the best days of art!
When the hissing your grog, and kissed both,
and raced cabs, and sung Bobeobi,
and if the enemy was, it was - Marshal Ney.
The pupils policemen turned yellow dome.
Which were born, in those nests and dying.
And if anything up in the air,
it was not a bridge, and Pavlov was.
How nice evening, away All Russia,
Baryshnikov mature. His talent is not erased!
leg cramp effort and torso
with round the rotation on its own axis
give rise to the flight, whose soul
how tired of waiting on the shelf, ready ozlitsya!
And what about the fact, which will land, –
Everywhere solid ground; I recommend US.