Bulat Okudzhava
The song of the old street organ player

My good old naughty organ,
The sound you make is sweet.
My good old naughty organ,
I wonder where you lead.
I'm plodding hardly able
to move ahead an inch.
How can I reach my aim when
the shoes I'm wearing pinch?

I'm working, I'm freelancing.
A steady job it is!
I wish my sweat would last me
for my remaining years.
I have a great assignment
of paying for my slips,
if only I could smile when
I get it in the ribs.

Translated by Alec Vagapov