Hidding himself from his annoying glory, In one the those United States, In the wilderness and thickets of a system strange to us Once lived, even better known than Judas, The living creation of Hollywood, The artist James Bond, spy, Agent 007. The fellow was a star, no if ands or buts, It’s impossible to describe his popularity. But was the matter all a joke? He was almost a demigod. As well known as Marcello and comparable to that puppy! He hid himself in his suburban villa So that his fans couldn’t bother him While dying from boredom and melancholy. But once they came to his apartment Threw themselves on him and tore off His last pants and jackets as souveniers. And so he lived, like in a cage. But he sweated in the cinema. He fooled around in various spy missions. Someone walks in some kind of skin, someone sleeps in an ashtray, While the one under the lampshade seduces someone. And here, this artist - James Bond - his friends From the government and private studios Want to do a joint film with us. So that the common folks wouldn’t find out, He decided to travel to us under a blanket, No matter, they’ll tear it to shreds anyhow. But judge for yourself: at the fences in the USA All the hairy hippies shaved off his hair, They tore off his sweater, bit off his wristwatch, And took away the slabs from the runway. Here in Moscow he descends the ladder, Puts a dollar in the porter’s hand And covers up his face while walking. Suddenly someone pulls up in a "GAZik" (Russian jeep) to the agent he gives them a publicity photo instead of a passport, Well, as they say, "khau du yu du" (how do you do). A huge convoy forms up - They meet the champion of bench marksmanship. He hit everything there was, he fired from the hip, And the women went wild about him, and the men as well. Satisfied that they didn’t recognize him, He took off the blanket in the "Nationale". But, disregarding his face and accent, There they called him a ragamuffin, Who was pretending to be a foreigner And he declared that he was allegedly an agent. The doorman took him by the collar... He decided to uncover himself, "I am 0-7" - "You need an operator? You’ll have to buy a token." In his mouth foam and bitter saliva flowed, And in his superman pose he sat down by the window. But cinematographers came running And they suppressed the misunderstanding, And they changed pounds for rubels... The cleaning lady yelled: "Here now, You think that little agent is something. In number nine we’ve got a prince from Somalia."
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?