Please, don’t create to itself an Idol
In freakish dreams, in the Universe.
Your lyre will fly off at the handle
Like blind Mole made a shitty verse.
Don’t pick at wreath upon gravestone:
Perhaps, it’s lovely to someone;
In night, having heard a spiteful howl,
Recall – d’you washed your anus in the morn?
Don’t blow your nose a scarf so gloomy;
Though, influenza fries a brain.
Don’t sing falsetto to the loony,-
Prefer him singing of the rain.
I know – may be it’s very knotty –
From toilet bowl - to float clear stream.
It’s silly, when you’re more than forty –
To wind on distaff - your life string.
(Vlad Markeloff © 2007)