The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Middlers" (Lyudi seredinyi) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Kissing the banner in dust-covered silk,

And spitting out his dentures in despair,

The field marshal called: "Forward, my glorious regiment!

Scorn death, my cutthroats!"

And proud with their crumpled banners,

Inflamed by a talented speech,-

Some rushed to the front lines -

Pushing backs and behinds,

And were the first to fall under the grapeshot.

The sly one - even he who was not brave,-

Unwilling to pay such a price,

Crawled to the back - but did not survive there:

His own comrades took aim at him -

And shot him in the back for treason.

Today every third man is without boots,

But after the battle - they will heal, like bruises,-

A fine regiment, a reliable, loyal regiment -

A regiment of select cutthroats!

And the third kind, amidst the battle and woes,

Tried to save both their chests and their backs,

Not going to the front lines,

Nor to the back,- but as if for food,

They fought for the golden middle ground.

They will write thick volumes

And will perish in frames, in paintings,-

Those who did not go to the front lines,

But were not in the back either - and are proud

That they honestly vegetated in the middle.

The trumpeter has already fallen silent without honors,

No brass is heard, only the clang of iron,

Ah, glorious regiment, reliable, loyal regiment,

In which there are only cutthroats.

But no, they will not tarnish the honor of the banners,

The field marshal breathed cheerfully and evenly,-

To justify them in the eyes of their descendants,

He shouted: "Someone has to die -

And someone has to survive,- unconditionally!"

And there is no star dimmer than theirs,-

Surely they will reach the end,

Hiding behind the desperate and the wicked,

Leaving the last row for others -

The moderate people of the middle ground.

...Banners trampled in the mud, crumpled silk,

Field marshal's batons and dentures.

Ah, glorious regiment!.. Was there ever a glorious regiment,

In which there were only cutthroats?

Целуя знамя в пропыленный шелк

И выплюнув в отчаянье протезы,

Фельдмаршал звал: "Вперед, мой славный полк!

Презрейте смерть, мои головорезы!"

И смятыми знаменами горды,

Воспалены талантливою речью,-

Одни стремились в первые ряды -

Расталкивая спины и зады,

И первыми ложились под картечью.

Хитрец - и тот, который не был смел,-

Не пожелав платить такую цену,

Полз в задний ряд - но там не уцелел:

Его свои же брали на прицел -

И в спину убивали за измену.

Сегодня каждый третий - без сапог,

Но после битвы - заживут, как крезы,-

Прекрасный полк, надежный, верный полк -

Отборные в полку головорезы!

А третьи средь битвы и беды

Старались сохранить и грудь и спину,

Не выходя ни в первые ряды,

Ни в задние,- но как из-за еды,

Дрались за золотую середину.

Они напишут толстые труды

И будут гибнуть в рамах, на картине,-

Те, что не вышли в первые ряды,

Но не были и сзади - и горды,

Что честно прозябали в середине.

Уже трубач без почестей умолк,

Не слышно меди, только звон железа,

Ах, славный полк, надежный верный полк,

В котором сплошь одни головорезы.

Но нет, им честь знамен не запятнать,

Дышал фельдмаршал весело и ровно,-

Чтоб их в глазах потомков оправдать,

Он крикнул: "Кто-то должен умирать -

А кто-то должен выжить,- безусловно!"

И нет звезды тусклее, чем у них,-

Уверенно дотянут до кончины,

Скрываясь за отчаянных и злых

Последний ряд оставив для других -

Умеренные люди середины.

...В грязь втоптаны знамена, смятый шелк,

Фельдмаршальские жезлы и протезы.

Ах, славный полк!.. Да был ли славный полк,

В котором сплошь одни головорезы?

In Vladimir Vysotsky's song "The Middle Men," a satirical depiction of a battle conceals a profound philosophical subtext about the nature of human conformity and the price of mediocrity.

The poem contrasts three types of people, embodying different models of behavior in society. First are the mindless "cutthroats," blindly following their leader and willing to sacrifice themselves for dubious glory. Second are the cowardly opportunists who strive to survive at all costs, even by betraying their own. Finally, there are the "middle men" – the majority who prefer to keep a low profile, taking a position of detached observation.

The "middle men" do not strive for feats, but neither do they stoop to baseness. They choose the "golden mean," avoiding risk and responsibility. Their lot is a gray, faceless life, devoid of both bright victories and bitter defeats. They "vegetate," content with little and finding solace in the thought that they live "honestly."

With bitterness and sarcasm, Vysotsky describes the fate of these "moderate" people. They remain unnoticed by history; their names will not be inscribed in the chronicles of glory. Their "thick works" – a symbol of fruitless and useless work – are doomed to oblivion.

The image of crumpled banners and broken prostheses at the end of the work symbolizes the collapse of ideals and values. The author asks: was there even a "glorious regiment" if it consisted only of "cutthroats" and passive observers? This final note makes one think about the price of conformity and inaction, about what the desire to "keep one's head down" and go with the flow leads to.