Dear Karl the Twelfth, Battle of Poltava,
thank God, lost. As the lardy said,
time will tell - Kuzkin's mother, ruins,
bones of posthumous joy with a taste of Ukraine.
It's not green-quit, wasted by an isotope,
- zhovto-blakitny flies over Konotop,
cut from canvas: know, Canada has in store -
for nothing, that without a cross: but Ukrainians do not need it.
Goy you, rushnik-karbovanets, seeds in a sweaty bag!
It is not for us, katsap, to accuse them of treason.
Themselves under the images of seventy years in Ryazan
with flooded eyes they lived, as under Tarzan.
Let's say to them, the ringing mother pauses, strictly:
a tablecloth for you, Ukrainians, and a towel.
Walk away from us in a zhupan, without speaking in a uniform,
at the address in three letters, all four on the sides.
Now let Hansa's mansion in the hut
they put you on four bones, you bastards.
How to climb into a loop, so together, choosing a path in the thicket,
and gnawing chicken from borscht alone is sweeter?
Forgive, Ukrainians! We lived together, that's enough.
Spit, or something, in Dnipro: maybe he will roll back,
disdaining proudly of us, like oskom, chock full
rejected corners and age-old resentment.
Do not remember it dashingly! Your sky, bread
we - choke on the cake and the ceiling - no need.
There is nothing to spoil the blood, to tear clothes on the chest.
End, know, love, if it was in between.
Why poking around in vain in torn roots with a verb!
The earth gave birth to you: soil, black soil with podzol.
Fully download the rights, sew us one thing, another.
This land gives you, kavunam, no peace.
Oh-yes levada-steppe, krala, bastan, dumplings.
We've lost more: more people than money.
We'll make it through somehow. And as for a tear from an eye
There is no order for her to wait until another time.
With God, eagles, Cossacks, hetmans, guardians!
Only when it comes to you to die too, bugai,
you will wheeze, scratching the edge of the mattress,
lines from Alexander, not Taras' nonsense.
