Come to me, my ant,
Like ore-miner comes down in mist,
The altruists alone ramble in gold
My ant...
Sing out your song
About tower bled white,
About coming of yester-days
My ant...
Throw your arms around me
Like gladiator slays the bird
Like excavator loves the earth
My ant...
I'm blind from infancy - never mind
You'll make me eyes with the screw-driver;
Witless, restless and spinning
My ant…
I know my translation is bad, but that's not the point. The point is that Boris is Voltaire of draughts.