There’s no yet ice-pieces, frosts,
A land is warm, snowball-tree’s red
But else one has became a ghost:
At novodevichiye it’s his bed!
It seems, he didn’t know signs,
Unworking people say for nothing,
Death catches first time those nice men
Who died untruthly many times.
If so, Makarych, don’t haste,
Put down pegs, make softer clinches,
O please reshoot, rewrite, replay
And on the earth remain alive just!
But makin’ at men’s eyes the tears
He’s carried bullet in stomach,
As loyal dog a land he’s catch,
Snowball-tree’s bush rised at the etch
So red as morning sun appears.
A death is pointin’ best persons
And pullin’ them one after one.
Such our brother has leaved us!
He caught an unhappy chance, -
Lives now on one hundred percents!
But this year "Razin" should been if...
Where’s character? Onega? Naroch?
All are the ovens-benchs, Makarych, -
And such your guy is not alive!
And now after short time-out
Fate has said angry of that man:
"Take from cheek-boneful man a ban -
For whole commemoration plan
He’s always fuckin’ to a mouth.
That man with very soul in body
And very heavy weight on hunch
Take warm from bed before a lunch
For he will not been so muddy!"
And after indispensable bathroom
Pure and undrank before a god
He now died as no mud
And more decidely than at past screen.