Ruddy my critic, mocker bellied,
Ready century Troon on our languid muse,
Go-ka you here, sit down for a minute you're with me,
try, Whether shall cope with the curse blues.
Look, which is kind of: miserable huts series,
They were black earth, plains sloping ramp,
Above them, a dense band of gray clouds.
Where the fields are bright? where dark woods?
where the river? At low yard fence
Two trees are poor in joy sight,
Only two trees. And then one of them
Rainy autumn quite naked,
And the leaves on the other, razmoknuv and zhelteya,
To clog the puddle, but just wait Boreas.
But only. In the courtyard there is a lively dog.
here, truth, little man, two women after him.
Bareheaded he; armpit coffin bears a child
And is calling from afar lazy Popenko,
So he called his father so the church opened.
hurry! no time to wait! I would long ago have buried.
Why are you frowning? - Is it possible to leave a whim!
And songs to entertain us cheerful? —
Where are you? - In Moscow - that the Count's birthday
I'm not here to shirk.
- Wait a minute - and quarantine!
Indeed, in our side of the Indian plague.
Sidi, of the gate gloomy Caucasus
Sometimes I used to sit humble thy servant;
what, brother? I do not Troon, longing takes - yeah!