"Вуди Гасри. Bound for glory (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

about half an hour. Then they got up and ten more men took their seat for
only fifteen minutes.
I was watching a bunch of men hold their fingers to their lips and
shush each other to keep quiet. Every one of them haw-hawing and tittering
under their breath and pointing to a kid asleep on the floor. He was about
twenty. Little white cap from the ten-cent store, a pair of old blue
washed-out pants, shirt to match, a set of dirty heels caked over with the
dust of many railroads, and a run-over pair of low-cut shoes. He was hugging
his bed roll and moving his lips against the wool blanket. I saw him dig his
toes in the dust and kiss the bundle.
I walked over and put my foot in the middle of his back and said, "Wake
up, stranger. Git ya some fresh air there in th' door!"
The men cackled and rolled in the dirt. They rared back and forth
slapping their hands against their legs. "Ddrrreeeeeeeaaaammming of youuuu
with your eyes so bluue!" One man was grinning like an ape and singing worse
than that.
"What's th' boy dreamin' about so purty, music man?" another
big guy asked me with his tongue in his cheek and eyes rolling.
"Leave th' boy alone," I told him back. "What th' hell do you dream
about, freight trains?"

I set down with my back against the wall looking all through the
troubled, tangled, messed-up men. Traveling the hard way. Dressed the hard
way. Hitting the long old lonesome go.
Rougher than a cob. Wilder than a woodchuck. Hotter than a depot stove.
Madder than nine hundred dollars. Arguing worse than a tree full of crows.
Messed up. Mixed-up, screwed-up people. A crazy boxcar on a wild track.
Headed sixty miles an hour in a big cloud of poison dust due straight to
nowhere.
I saw ten men getting up out of the door and I took my guitar over and
set down and stuck my feet out. The cold air felt good whipping up my pants
leg. I pulled my shirt open to cool off across my waist and chest. My Negro
friend took a seat by my side and told me, "I reckon we's 'bout due some
frash air, looks like."
"Jest be careful ya don't use it all up," I kidded back at him.
I held my head in the wind and looked out along the lake shoreline with
my ear cocked listening to the men in the car.
"You're a lyin' skunk!" one was saying. "I'm just as hard a worker as
you are, any old day!"
"You're a big slobbery loafin' heel!"
"I'm th' best dadgum blacksmith in Logan County!"
"You mean you use ta was! You look like a lousy tramp ta me!"
"I c'n put out more manly labor in a minnit then you kin in a month!"
"Hay, there, you sot! Quit spittin' on my bed roll!"
"Yeah! Yeah! I know! I'm woikin' stiff, too, see? But I ain't no good
here! Yeah! I woiked thirteen years in th' same weave room! Breakout fixer
on th' looms! Poil Harbor comes along. Big comp'ny gits alla de war orders.
My place is a little place, so what happens? Just like dat! She closes down.
An' I'm out on de freights. But I ain't nuttin' when I hit th' freights.
Takes it all outta me. Nuttin`. But a lousy, dirty tramp!"