Sick again. My luck is quite unfair.
What’s the use of whining once again...
Shame on you, my fortune, how you dare -
That I am the only one who’s slain!

For I’ve honored you just like a sculpture,
And I’ve called you by these Roman words.
I have been in court among the vultures,
And I’ve read all Fortunatov’s works.

Hey, can you recall when I would pull a prank?
When my courage faded to a smolder?
I just whispered prayers, to be frank,
Spat three times - for luck - behind my shoulder.

And at times when someone cursed your part,
Leading to a prejudiced demerit,
I would always rebel in my heart,
With the fury of a frantic zealot.

Now a runny nose, a tincture potion.
Hiccups, coughing - I don’t feel refreshed.
I would spit right in the eye of fortune
(If she’s not a woman in the flesh).