I’ll now blow up like three tons of explosives;
I’m loaded up with uncreative bile.
The Muse popped in today to say: "How goes it?" -
Only popped in, then she went and hopped it in a little while.

She had good reason though, I realise that -
I mustn’t whinge and grumble: "Woe is me!"
Just think, the Muse at night-time in a guy’s flat...
God knows what folk would make her out to be!

But even so, I’m lonely with a long face -
You see, this Muse, as people have relayed,
Just hung around for days and nights at Blok’s place
And moved straight in with Balmont, where she stayed.

I’d rushed headlong, with great anticipation,
Towards my desk but, Lord above, she had
Just disappeared with all my inspiration
And grabbed three roubles, no doubt for a cab.

Just like a beast from room to room I thunder,
But I won’t hold a grudge - that’s that, so tough!
She’s disappeared, and someone else has won her -
I can’t have entertained her well enough.

A great big cake, all pricked with many candles,
Has dried out and I’ve no creative juice.
And with my neighbours - what a bunch of vandals -
I drank the cognac kept back for the Muse.

Years passed from sight, like people on the blacklist;
It’s finished and I’m yawning from ennui.
She disappeared and sneaked off like the English
But left behind two lines of poetry.

You can’t deny my genius now, surely -
Here’s those two lines, throw flowers, raise a cheer:
"I well remember you appear before me
Just like a vision fleeting, pure and clear."1