It was on the day of rest, and so I hadn’t picked a pocket; On a Sunday, take a break, you get my drift? Then a whistle blows, I’m grabbed, I’m being called all names, like "bandit", But one knew me; he cries out "Recidivist!" "Comrade, don’t get in a twist; Now, here’s my surname - it’s Sergeev; But about Recidivist There just ain’t nothing I can say, guv." It was on the day of rest, but the Old Bill don’t get no leisure; They’ve got targets still to make, that’s what they’re told. But if they go and overreach them, they get medals they can treasure - So Recidivist is worth his weight in gold. I’m politely asked: "You, sit!" - Then I’m given papirosi. "So, you’re A Recidivist? Sign this statement where the cross is!" It was on the day of rest, that kind of lazy, sunny Sunday; Everyone was there with friends and family - But I was sat there feeling bored like on a dull and gloomy Monday; Then the major spoke official-like to me: "Now how many times is this?" "My maths really ain’t that great, guv..." "But you’re A Recidivist?" "No, chief, my name is Sergeev." It was on the day of rest, and I was sweating, up the junction, But the major’s mathematics was just fine; First he started adding numbers, then he multiplied and crunched ’em, And he said I’d been convicted now ten times. The chief handed me a chit; I put my best mark on that paper And I wrote: "Recidivist By the surname of Sergeev." It was on the day of rest and I was tired, I was punch-drunk, But one thing I know, yes, one thing warms my heart: In the filth’s seven-year plan to catch the bandits, thieves and such ones I have also played my modest little part.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2007