Sasha Chorny
The Anarchist

Once there was an anarchist,
Beard and cheeks he died — so cocky.
Mädchen he’d in Terijoki.
Sadist too — you get the gist.

Round his neck the wrinkles clustered
Forming there a crimson shawl.
Lots he ate, with gloves he flustered —
In a word he did it all.

At a party, scratching itch,
Priest’s son, whipper-idealist
Questioned, bravely: “Petr Petrovich,
Why are you an anarchist?”

Petr Petrovich, eyebrows raising,
Turning crimson as a beet,
Clucked in his staccato phrasing:
“Ignoramus! Fool effete!”

Translated by Rupert Moreton