On the way I met not only once scoundrels,
But for one I felt a special enthusiasm -
He treacherously flung a handfull makhorka* in the face,
A knife into the belly - and disappeared.
I am healthy, I survived, I didnít believe the surgeon,
Now and I believe revived him,
One cannot find such hands but in Amercia -
I wonít forget him.
I set my dreams to apply the brakes,
Waited for a meeting and came to that place.
I really didnít fling makhorka in the eyes,
But then I began to smoke.
I never met with such pleasure
Such unconcealed scoundrels.
But now I am satisfied: oh, how he lay,
No breath, amidst fire-wood!