It was a Sunday afternoon, and I refrained from pocket picking:
Sunday is a day for leisure, I insist!
Suddenly, a whistle sounded, I was grabbed and called a villain,
Then one looks at me and screams: "Recidivist!"

"Come on, comrade, drop my wrist.
Look, my surname is Sergeyev.
Who is your recidivist?
No idea. I can’t tell you."

It was a Sunday afternoon, a day when everyone is resting,
but the flatfoots also have a to-do list.
If they can exceed it, they will be rewarded for arresting:
By the weight in gold, for each recidivist.

They looked happy to assist:
"Please sit down. " A smoke was offered.
"So you’re a recidivist?
Sign the protocol we authored!"

It was a Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining like new money,
All the folks were walking with their kids or friends,
But I sat there bored to death, as on the most depressing Monday:
My lieutenant was determined to the end.

"Times detained?" - the copper quizzed.
"I’m not good with numbers lately!"
"But you’re a recidivist?"
"No, Lieutenant, I’m Sergeev."

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was bending over backwards,
But this cop knew math far better than my crimes:
He just added something up, plus multiplied it by some factors,
And declared I was convicted seven times.

Then he handed me a sheet,
And I signed it to obey him.
I inscribed: "Recidivist
By the surname of Sergeyev. "

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was beaten up and weary,
But I know for certain, and it warms my heart:
In the seven-year plan to catch our hooligans and stealers,
There’s a modest contribution on my part!