Of mighty talent stand I musing,
Of one who stands for Russia's fate,
Tverskóy Boulevard perusing,
I stand and with myself I prate.
My hair is fair - there are few blonder -
They say that I've become like mist,
O Alexander! What a bounder!
And I'm delinquent - often pissed.
But these beguiling sweet diversions
Can cast no shadow on your mien,
You proudly shake off all aspersions
With bronze-cast nod of blueish sheen.
And standing as before the Presence,
I look upon you, and I say:
I would ascend right to the heavens
If such a fate were mine today.
Though doomed I am to persecution,
Unceasing will I sing my songs...
So song of Steppe in execution
Might deep resound with tone of bronze.