Not, I swear, pretty Rosa
draining wallet!
trust, insane, He - not fiction,
More than this we rations!
Without it, now pose
I would have shot his temple.
Languid prose became Rose,
Nightingale Garden faded,
Subsistence threat -
I do not have railways roads,
Even (due to frost?)
Stopped tram current,
import, of exportation, bringing up -
Our south, nor east,
The dump all manure
turned town, –
Where is the next Economic Council
Blue flower seek?
In this world, where so empty,
You look for it, find,
AND, finding, Call cabbage,
Daily soup luggage,
Do not seek thy, soup that not a lot -
Will be thinner ahead,
Do not complain, when Procrustes
Turn - that look
("Books that it was not in the cupboard hundred!»
tell Bruce, weather),
AND, when it comes Locust,
Into her arms Fall.
flower names were not loud,
Requisition - just,
But wearing the knapsack
And cabbage - pineapple,
As with the beautiful stranger,
He did not take his eyes her,
A distant descendants
And they praise us,
That we are not fragile, no breaking,
Zdravstvuem even now
(Yes, with).
Or my poems are not loud?
Or badly vomiting traces
romantic Pegasus,
Harnessed in carriage?
6. XII. 1919
