The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Song of the Doctors" (Pesnya o vrachah) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Bearded men hung on the wall in frames -

All in eyeglasses on chains, popularly called pince-nez, -

They all discovered something, they all invented vaccines,

So if I'm not dead, it's all their fault.

The doctor said: "You are sick," -

And I started to shiver,

And the heart-shaped lamp

Grinned from the wall, -

This is not a cell - it's a ward,

This is not a bunk, but a bench,

Not a suspect, guys,

But a subject of study!

And although I'm all in ailments, I'm not scared for some reason, -

Let's sign, without looking, the medical protocol!

I know Sklifosovsky, the founder of the institute,

I know comrade Botkin - he invented jaundice.

In my position

Only a fool would protest:

If the doctor gets angry,

He'll put you away in the "yellow house".

Everything depends in this house

On yourself:

If you want, you can become Budyonny,

If you want, you can be his horse!

My brains don't go beyond reason - believe me -

I ask a question with a hint, that is, I'm looking for a scandal:

"If, for example, Kashchenko went to Pirogov for treatment -

Pirogov would have no reason to cut Kashchenko..."

But the doctor is no fool either -

He is cunning and cautious.

"Yes, you are right, but a reverse

Course is possible," - he says.

Here is a ward with five beds,

Here is the professor entering the door -

He points his finger: "Paranoid," -

Go ahead and check him!

It's good that you, luminaries, were all hung on the wall -

I'm behind you, my dears, like behind a stone wall,

I rely on Vishnevsky, I hope for Burdenko, -

They will confirm that I am not mentally, but spiritually ill!

My family is strong - I take after them, -

True, my great-grandfather was blind;

My father-in-law is hot-tempered,

But my father-in-law is not a relative!

"Doctor, we are here face to face -

Answer me, be quick:

Will it be a diagnosis,

Or will it be a sentence?"

And the doctors, and the nurses, and the luminaries were all embarrassed,

The light outside the window set behind me,

And the eyeglasses on the chain seemed to be covered with moisture,

The cheeks of the father of jaundice suddenly turned white.

And the point hung,

And the paper ruffled, -

The doctor acted for the good,

It's a pity - the good is not mine, -

But it's not a steel feather -

It pierced my chest like a stiletto:

My diagnosis is paranoia,

This means - a couple of years!

На стене висели в рамках бородатые мужчины -

Все в очечках на цепочках, по-народному - в пенсне, -

Все они открыли что-то, все придумали вакцины,

Так что если я не умер - это все по их вине.

Доктор молвил: "Вы больны", -

И меня заколотило,

И сердечное светило

Ухмыльнулось со стены, -

Здесь не камера - палата,

Здесь не нары, а скамья,

Не подследственный, ребята,

А исследуемый я!

И хотя я весь в недугах, мне не страшно почему-то, -

Подмахну давай, не глядя, медицинский протокол!

Мне известен Склифосовский, основатель института,

Мне знаком товарищ Боткин - он желтуху изобрел.

В положении моем

Лишь чудак права качает:

Доктор, если осерчает,

Так упрячет в "желтый дом".

Все зависит в этом доме оном

От тебя от самого:

Хочешь - можешь стать Буденным,

Хочешь - лошадью его!

У меня мозги за разум не заходят - верьте слову -

Задаю вопрос с намеком, то есть, лезу на скандал:

"Если б Кащенко, к примеру, лег лечиться к Пирогову -

Пирогов бы без причины резать Кащенку не стал..."

Но и врач не лыком шит -

Он хитер и осторожен.

"Да, вы правы, но возможен

Ход обратный", - говорит.

Вот палата на пять коек,

Вот профессор входит в дверь -

Тычет пальцем: "Параноик", -

И поди его проверь!

Хорошо, что вас, светила, всех повесили на стенку -

Я за вами, дорогие, как за каменной стеной,

На Вишневского надеюсь, уповаю на Бурденку, -

Подтвердят, что не душевно, а духовно я больной!

Род мой крепкий - все в меня, -

Правда, прадед был незрячий;

Свекр мой - белогорячий,

Но ведь свекр- не родня!

"Доктор, мы здесь с глазу на глаз -

Отвечай же мне, будь скор:

Или будет мне диагноз,

Или будет - приговор?"

И врачи, и санитары, и светила все смутились,

Заоконное светило закатилось за спиной,

И очечки на цепочке как бы влагою покрылись,

У отца желтухи щечки вдруг покрылись белизной.

И нависло острие,

И поежилась бумага, -

Доктор действовал на благо,

Жалко - благо не мое, -

Но не лист перо стальное -

Грудь проткнуло, как стилет:

Мой диагноз - паранойя,

Это значит - пара лет!

In "The Song about Doctors," Vysotsky, with his characteristic satire and biting irony, reflects on the nature of medicine, the doctor-patient relationship, the fear of illness, and the healthcare system. The lyrical hero finds himself in a hospital, surrounded by portraits of famous doctors who look down on him like judges. He feels like a suspect, "a subject of study" rather than a sick person in need of help.

Vysotsky's humor is intertwined with anxiety. The hero fears the arbitrariness that can arise from the subjectivity of diagnosis. He tries to joke, referring to the absurdity of the situation: if Kashchenko (a famous psychiatrist) had gone to Pirogov (a surgeon), the latter would hardly have operated on him.

The fear intensifies when the hero sees a professor who categorically diagnoses him with "paranoia." On the one hand, the hero hopes for the help of eminent doctors, mentioning Vishnevsky and Burdenko. On the other hand, he understands that they are also part of the system on which his fate depends. The ending of the song is tragicomic: the doctors diagnose him with "paranoia" - "that means a couple of years." The phrase is ambiguous: it is both the duration of treatment and a hint at the limitations of life.

Overall, "The Song about Doctors" is a reflection on human vulnerability, the fear of the unknown, and a system that can be both saving and formidable.