Whoevers life ends tragically, thats a real poet
And even if your time is fixed, at least its to the full,
At number 26 one stepped in front of a pistol
Another slipped into a noose in Angleterre.

And at 33 they gave Christ (He was a a poet, he said:
Thou shalt not kill. Kill, and Ill find you anywhere, he said)
But, nails went into his hands, so he didn’t get up to ànything
So he didnt write and thought less.

At the number 37 the tipsiness flies off me in a trice,
Now its just like a cold wind has blown,
At this number Pushkin predicted a duel for himself
And Mayakovsky laid his temple on a barrel

Lets stick with the number 37. Insidious God
Put the question point-blank: youre either or.
On this side of line passed Byron and Rimbeau,
Contemporary writers seem to have jumped across somehow.

The duel didnt take place, or has been postponed,
And at 33 they crucified them, but not too hard,
And in 37 not blood, what blood was there? and even grey hair
Soiled the temples not too lavishly.

I dare you to shoot yourself. Has your heart long since gone to your boots?
Patience, psycopaths and rabble rousers!
Poets are walking back on heels along a knifeblade
And are cutting till they bleed their barefoot souls.

In the word long-necked there were 3 es at the end
Keep the poet quiet its an obvious conclusion
And knife him but hes happy to hang on the blade
Killed because he was dangerous

I pity you, believers in fatal dates and numbers!
You suffer like kidnapped girls in a harem:
Life has got longer, and, perhaps
Poets time has been put off for a while!