Because empty, sorrow from the lips on,
separating poetry from art,
I will announce to you over the ashes of sleep
the triumph of brains craft,
and be inflated at the throat, the side,
what will srifa even a cruise boat,
lonely shaving in the snow.
Skill propyl would, but I can't.
Someone block problems with God,
my Muse is always at hand:
after sorting out the motor, fill the tank,
I'll get started like I went to a pub.
