| In the courtyard of the St. Petersburg well
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| The groans of the barrel organ are heard.
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| I lie in swampy twilight
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| On his creaky ottoman.
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| And in my swamp
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| Just step foot
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| And you won't leave forever, you won't unhook.
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| But I'm not Yaga,
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| Not a witch with a stick,
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| I am a simple old money-lender.
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| Come to me - we'll sit later,
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| I am quite a companionable aunt.
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| And my quarters - there are two zeros on the door,
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| And there is such a line between them.
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| I take your things for storage,
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| To have dividends from your souls.
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| I am old, but to me, nevertheless,
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| Sometimes students even go.
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| There was one here yesterday
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| All stared like a spy
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| He was hiding something, tramp, under his arm.
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| Well, and I'm in his forehead:
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| "I don't need an axe,"
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| Better run, my friend, for a passbook.”
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| I, by God, gave him two times:
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| Let another time, slither, don't puff up!
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| And my apartment has two eyes on the door,
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| And in the middle is a Latin Izhitsa.
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| I am practical, smart, obligatory,
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| But for the cause I will play a fool.
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| And it is not in vain that writers study
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| My eternally living nature.
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| Came here alone
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| With a head out of whack,
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| He promised to describe in a novel.
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| But you won't get through me -
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| I'm a lady in years -
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| All writers, we know, are deceivers.
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| I prefer bills - they have a different line
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| Stronger than any Faust there.
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| And in my apartment - two short calls
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| And there is a long pause between them.
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| Let countless riches flow
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| In my chest, like in a bottomless bowl.
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| I am more immortal than Kashchei the Deathless -
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| I am over the golden color, but not withering away.
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| Even cut me with a knife
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| At least fight with satire,
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| All the same, nothing will change.
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| I will collect again
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| Harvest of your souls
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| And the hurdy-gurdy will sweep them away like a windmill!
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| Come to me, and seasoned, and aphids,
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| Bring everyone to me, you bald devil.
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| And my quarters - there are two zeros on the door,
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| And between them is a slanted line. |