For poets and so on, but mainly - for poets
Who ended life tragic - he is a true poet,
And if at the exact time - then in full measure.
At the number 26 one took a step towards the pistol,
And then however - climbed to the loop in "Angleterre".

And with thirty-three Jesus Christ... (He was a poet, he spoke:
"You are not to kill!" - everywhere I’ll find you, he said.)
But they bashed nails into his hands, to that he could not create,
So that he neither wrote, nor thought about it.

I am at the number 37, in a moment I’ll fall off drink.
There and at once like a cold shuddering:
Under this number Pushkin made a mess of himself in a duel
And Mayakovsky shot himself in the temple.

Let’s stay at the number 37. Treacherous god -
Put a question point- blank: Either - or.
On this line we lost Byron and Rimbaud,
And the present-day they have somehow slipped through.

The duel didn’t take place or was postponed,
And at thirty three they were crucified, but not powerfully.
And with thirty-seven - no blood, what is blood and turning grey
It doesn’t mar too much.

Too weak to shoot oneself? My heart sank to my boots?
Patience, psychopates and hysterical women!
The poets walk on the razor’s edge
And cut to the blood your bare souls.

On the word "dlinosheee"* pin on three "e" at the end.
The poets shorten - the decision is clear.
And the knife after him - but he hangs fortunately on the cutter
Slaughtered because he was dangerous.

I pity you, follower of a fateful date and number!
You pine like a concubine in a harem:
Expectation of life has risen and maybe the end
Of the poets put back in time!