It was on the day of rest, and so I hadn’t picked a pocket;
On a Sunday, take a break, you get my drift?
Then a whistle blows, I’m grabbed, I’m being called all names, like "bandit",
But one knew me; he cries out "Recidivist!"

"Comrade, don’t get in a twist;
Now, here’s my surname - it’s Sergeev;
But about Recidivist
There just ain’t nothing I can say, guv."

It was on the day of rest, but the Old Bill don’t get no leisure;
They’ve got targets still to make, that’s what they’re told.
But if they go and overreach them, they get medals they can treasure -
So Recidivist is worth his weight in gold.

I’m politely asked: "You, sit!" -
Then I’m given papirosi.
"So, you’re A Recidivist?
Sign this statement where the cross is!"

It was on the day of rest, that kind of lazy, sunny Sunday;
Everyone was there with friends and family -
But I was sat there feeling bored like on a dull and gloomy Monday;
Then the major spoke official-like to me:

"Now how many times is this?"
"My maths really ain’t that great, guv..."
"But you’re A Recidivist?"
"No, chief, my name is Sergeev."

It was on the day of rest, and I was sweating, up the junction,
But the major’s mathematics was just fine;
First he started adding numbers, then he multiplied and crunched ’em,
And he said I’d been convicted now ten times.

The chief handed me a chit;
I put my best mark on that paper
And I wrote: "Recidivist
By the surname of Sergeev."

It was on the day of rest and I was tired, I was punch-drunk,
But one thing I know, yes, one thing warms my heart:
In the filth’s seven-year plan to catch the bandits, thieves and such ones
I have also played my modest little part.