Iíll now blow up like three tons of explosives;
Iím 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 mustnít whinge and grumble: "Woe is me!"
Just think, the Muse at night-time in a guyís flat...
God knows what folk would make her out to be!
But even so, Iím lonely with a long face -
You see, this Muse, as people have relayed,
Just hung around for days and nights at Blokís place
And moved straight in with Balmont, where she stayed.
Iíd 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 wonít hold a grudge - thatís that, so tough!
Sheís disappeared, and someone else has won her -
I canít have entertained her well enough.
A great big cake, all pricked with many candles,
Has dried out and Iíve 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;
Itís finished and Iím yawning from ennui.
She disappeared and sneaked off like the English
But left behind two lines of poetry.
You canít deny my genius now, surely -
Hereís those two lines, throw flowers, raise a cheer:
"I well remember you appear before me
Just like a vision fleeting, pure and clear."1