Kozma Prutkov
My portrait

When you meet a person in the mob,
                Whose's naked 'n thin,*
Whose forehead's dark and frowned more
                Than Kazbek peak,
Whose locks're shuffled, messed,
                Who weeps and cry —
And shivers nervesvously — guess?
                That's sure — mine.

Who's stung anew maliciously over —
                And this seems fate,
And crowd crazyly his laurels —
                Disrupts away.
Who never bends his back before —
                It is mine, forsaken,
A smile I keep on face, and more —
                In bosom — snake.

____
^* whose's dressed tails in — Kozma Prutkov

Translated by Lyudmila Purgina