Chorny S. The drunkards night song

      I stub...
And off to hell a street lamp starts to flee.
      My tub
Is rocking with the booze, as if at sea...
      By feel
A distance post my hand has gripped.
      For real,
The right foot has mischievously flipped:
      The gall!
Around me, it’s shuffling in a trot...
      A wall
Persists in scrambling onto my pot.
      — You pig!
To dare call me that. The nerve of you!
      To dig
At me, the most noble to the view?
      You’d think...
Or rather, never mind, dear lad –
      I drink,
As that is my lot; it’s not too bad.
      I crawl...
The knees are trembling – I’m beat and numb.
      A thrall
Prostrates like this when keeping mum...
      Alas...
At forty now I’m poor and dull.
      To grass
You should consign this besotted hull.
      On cue
The Charon’s craft is bringing me to hell...
      Adieu!
To sleep, to sleep, to sleep we must propel.

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«Ночная песня пьяницы», 1909