Your bright eyes cut like a knife: When you look me in the eyes, I forget of who I am and where Iím from; When you look at me rebuked, It feels like a cutting wound From a cleaver that is razor-sharp and cold! I am well, I donít pretend, Nickels I can break by hand, And I recently headbutted a bull to death. But to live with you is tough, Not your bend-a-horseshoe task, And to kill you I donít have the moral strength. Has there ever been a time When I run from home at night? But youíre never by my side where you belong. After stealing I head home; Youíre not there, and so I roam: I am searching round the town all day long. Iíve been running like a tyke, Even bought myself a bike, So itís easier to suffer in my hunts. By a dump truck I was hit, Sklifosóvsky1 took me in, But you didnít come to see me even once. And the doc, a good old man, Looked quite dull and sullen then: He was stitching up my wound for six long days. Anesthesia wore off, And a question soon was posed: Who is she for whom I risk my life in vain? Donít you be over the moon, My discharge is coming soon, And Iíll have revenge on you so much deserved! I am telling you, old snake: I will hone my razor blade, And Iíll shave your pretty head completely bald!
1 A medical institution in Moscow specializing in trauma and urgent care. Itís known colloquially by the name of the surgeon it was named after.
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2022