For poets and others, but mostly - for poets
A tragic end - is every poetís fate,
And if the timingís right - that poetís rare.
At twenty-six, one faced a gun, dismayed,
Another - found a noose in "Angleterre."
Then, thereís Christ, at thirty-three... (He said:
"Thou shall not kill!" - just try, Iíll hunt you down)
They crucified him to suppress the threat,
Or heíd keep writing, preaching to the crowd.
The number thirty-sevenís just as cruel,
Iím sobered up, recalling whatís been done:
Great Pushkin picked this number for a duel
And Mayakovskyís temple hit the gun.
Letís stay on thirty-seven. God, the tyrant -
He put it bluntly: take your pick, right now.
On this frontier, we lost Rimbaud, and Byron,
Though modern poets passed it by somehow.
The duel did not take place or got delayed,
And they were crucified at thirty-three but barely.
No blood was spilled, only their hair turned gray
At thirty seven, - they were treated fairly.
"Your heart sank to your feet? Youíre too afraid?"
Have patience, all you psychos with caprices!
These poets walk, with heels against the blade,
And cut their barefoot hearts to bits and pieces.
The long-necked poetís gained too much appeal.
So cut him short! - the resolutionís wise.
They stab him - but heís glad to feel the steel,
He posed a danger, so he paid the price.
You, numerologists, who think you know the day,
Scared like the concubines in harems, in denial!
The life expectancy has grown, and let us pray
That poetsí deaths will be postponed awhile.