Sergey yesenin 'sing, old man, to the bloody guitar'
Sing, old man, to the bloody guitar, and
Let your fingers show natural bent.
I would choke in this drunken enchantment
You"re my last and my only friend.
Don"t you look at her wrist and the blooming
Silky shawl hanging down her head.
I was looking for joy in this woman
But I found perdition instead.
I did not know that love was infection,
I did not know that love was a plague.
She just came and feigning affection
Drove the rowdy mad, no mistake.
Sing and let me remember, brother,
Our fidgety youthful whirl.
Let her kiss, pet and fondle another,
Ah, this beautiful wicked girl!
No, no, wait. I don"t blame her or bully.
No, no, wait. I don"t damn or disgrace.
Let me sing now about yours truly
To the sound of this string of base.
Rosy vault of my days is streaming.
I"ve got plenty of golden dreams.
I have petted so many young women,
Touched and squeezed them, governed by whims.
Yes! There is bitter truth of the world
When a child I caught sight of that truth:
Troops of hounds, excited and wild,
Taking turns lick a bitch all in juice.
Why be jealous of her? I don"t get.
Being sick would be mere pretext.
Our life is just bed-sheet and bed.
Our life is a kiss and a vortex.
Sing, old man! In the fateful sphere
Of these hands is a fated end.
Tell them all to f… out of here.
I will never be dead, my friend.