Don’t mow me with a scythe, Don’t stick a nail in my palm; Don’t snuff me out with hemlock. You’re my lucid mind, I’m a black bone, So run off to the misplaced honor Of our pure soul. How much I didn’t steal--but all hands are empty; How much I didn’t drink--all the wine like off a bush; Vote if you want, or go in for Buddhism, And wake up in the morning--everything around is emptiness. Don’t cut me with a saw, don’t stick a pole in my eye; There are enough poles hereabouts to make a decent home; But the soul is holy; she lay on us; Therefore drink, don’t fidget--we're two of a kind. I would have liked it that way, but everything is like steps in the sand; Sing in the opera if you want, or go nuts with an axe-- And all the same Vladimir drives the flock to the river, But to the flock it’s all one…they ate it served with shit.