not ruhaytes. such a thing!
Not a trader I word.
I fell back and became heavy
Gold my head.
No love nor to the village, nor there,
As I was able to bring her?
I throw all. Let go of his beard
And vagabond go across Russia.
Forget books and poems,
Flip amount shoulder,
Because that profligate fields
Wind longer sings, than anyone.
I stunk radish and onion
AND, disturbing the smooth surface of an evening,
I will loudly blow his nose in his hand
And in all playing the fool.
And I do not need the best of luck,
Just relax and listen to the blizzard,
Because without these eccentricities
I live on earth can not.