Автор: Н.И. Козлов

The priest had a dog - parodies

"The priest had a dog ..." a selection of parodies from the collection "Parnassus on end". A selection is used to develop emotional expressiveness.

В безмятежные дни мира, дни и радости, и счастья...
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В каком краю неведомо, в какой году несказано...
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Поп сив и стар. Глаза красны от слез...
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Я бедный попик убогий...
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Он убил ее. Убил, потому что любил!
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А я вам, гражданочка, прямо скажу%3A не люблю я попов.
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Куда же вы ушли, мой серенький, мой козлик...
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Или так...
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​​​​​​​​​​​​​Henry Longfellow. The Song of Hiawatha

In the serene days of peace, days and joys, and happiness,

On earth Ojibuyev lived a gray teacher-katsik.

He had Mishenava, a learned dog and a crafty one,

And the old man of the soul did not like tea in Mishenava, all reasonable.

Once, while sitting at the wigwam and listening to the groan

of Sleeping Shuh-shuh-gi, herons grazed with a long-legged one,

He thought deeply and forgot about the pemmikan,

What the neighbors brought him for the evening meal.

Then he saw Mishenov, and like a vile Hegodoya,

Coward despicable and insignificant,

He crept up to the pemmikan.

In an instant, all ate the glutton nasty.

But learned about this katsik and grabbed his tomahawk,

he killed in one blow the evil thief Mishenava.

And then he wove a motley wampum about himself and about the dog:

"In serene days of peace, days and joys and happiness ..."

- etc.

N.A. Nekrasov

In which edge - unknown,

In what year - it is not said,

In the village Pustovolodno

There lived a rapping-pop.

With the priest lived a dog,

named Huzhzhetochka,

Myself is intelligent, krasotochka,

Yes, and honest.

That faithful dog

threw his possessions,

the dining room, the pantry,

the veal full of meat,

Pop all his goods.

But hunger for a foolish joke

Played with Juzhzhetka a true,

And wild game stealing,

The dog ate all.

When he learned about the malicious stealing,

Pop took a sharp ax,

And that faithful dog

In the garden, he cut.

And I shed tears,

I bought a plate of cast-iron,

And with Slovenian letters

I told Vavile a locksmith

There I write an inscription ...

In which edge - it is unknown,

In which year - it is not said ...

Etc.

Ivan Bunin. Sonnet

Pop siv and old. Eyes are red with tears.

One concern is to light the lamps.

Wife in the coffin. And my daughter is behind the fence.

The last friend is a thin, shabby dog.

Now the priest already needs a little:

The bread edge, a pack of cigarettes ...

But the dog is greedy. With him, no slides

- Lukov, cunning. And he took the meat away.

No, you can not! In the eyes of a tired flame,

Pop, hobbling, drags himself into the barn,

Takes an ax. And, sharpening on the stone,

the Dog says for the last time: farewell.

The ax took off with a sweeping sweep,

And the blade of the block died.

Anna Akhmatova

I am a poor little deceased,

I live without smiles and tears.

Oh, everything went forth the roads

With me a frail dog.

Deteriorated sad cell,

Scarce meat piece.

And it’s in sad mirth

Wherever the dog took it.

And death stretched out his arms to him ...

Both of us will hold sorrow.

I did not know how delicate the throat

was Under the collar of your copper.

Oscar Wilde

He killed her. He killed because he loved. It was so in the ages.

Purple meat, bloody, like the toga of Roman emperors, and more red than fire anemones, still tore the pearls of its teeth. The silver moons of her small legs rested motionless on the emerald lawn colored with ruby ​​blood, this dew of love and suffering.

- Poor Bobby! Whispered Mr. Cwhizble, the vicar of Nottenheim Church, throwing away the stick, the weapon of murder. "You did not know that although love is theft, stealing is not love. Death has revealed this secret to you. Rip".

He withdrew. With lilac irises, tears dripped onto the golden sand. He killed her. He killed because he loved.

Michael Zoshchenko

THE FIRST CHRISTMAS STORY

And I’ll tell you, Citizen, directly: I do not like priests. It’s not that I enlisted to the party, I let the anti-religious dope go, but I do not like the spiritual category. And for what, ask, I do not like? For greed, for stinginess, that’s what. And it’s not that I myself was a broomstick or what kind of bon vivant, but judge for yourself which of the priests can happen.

A spiritual person lives with us on one staircase, a priest comes to Nikolo-Vozdvizhensky. The dog they had, I will not say that it is of very noble origin, but the main thing is not that it’s a lie, but a character. And her character, I must say, was wonderful, well, just to say, the housewife was a dog, not some kind of mongrel was walking.

But only we began to notice that the dog began to lose weight. Ribs, you know, are indicated, and sadness on the muzzle. One word is poor nutrition and metabolism. We began to comment on the spiritual person of the remark, not by rudeness, of course, but in a businesslike way: "So, they say, and so, you would, comrade, minister of the cult, increase your dog’s ration, your dog is losing weight, ". And the spiritual person passes by an indifferent gait, as if this is not her concern.

Only I look, on Monday morning near the garbage pit the dog’s corpse is lying around. Legs thin drooping, a hair in the blood, and an ear, you know, sort of like a heel pinned. My depression took me - it was very pleasant dog in the yard, I never scared the stairs. I began to ask the janitor to find out how, yes, yes, the dog was dead by his death from poor nutrition. And we learned, citizeness, that a clergyman with his own hands destroyed a dog for a lousy, I’m sorry, piece of meat. The dog ate lunch meat, and to the meat, forgive me, the price of the cookie. Resentment took me, Citizen, I tell you, to death. And you want to - take offense, you want - no, but I’ll tell you openly: I do not like people of the spiritual category.

A.N. Vertinsky

Where did you go, my gray, my goat,

with a bells in the forehead and ribbon on the horns?

Your garden is sad, Nannet the old lady is crying

about the dead love, about the May days past.

At the last moment I saw you so close,

In a distant forest you were driving a cabriolet.

Then under the weight of a wolf you fell low,

Only the legs and horns left for Nannet.

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