Я долго плавал в пиратских морях,Знавал и шторм и грозу.И мне повстречался старый мудрякС повязкой на левом глазу.Его заклеймил Папаша БульИ Дядюшка Сэм отверг.Одиннадцатый год его солнце жжетИ звезд слепит фейерверк.Ко-Ко и Пшикспир зовут на пир,Брачные бубны гремят,И мечут перлы скитальцы эрлыПод ноги поросят.Но чертов старик прыг на свой бриг,Как сверчок на насест!Плевать, если нет в кармане монет,Чтоб уплатить за проезд.Пускай лилипуты кричат: Капут!Хватай негодяя! ПораКак можно скорее вздернуть на реюЭтих пиратов пера!Но Водиссей лишь ухо заткнет,Припоминая с тоскойЛесок и Песок и голосокДальней сильвены морской.А бриг выделывал кренделяПод флагом бел-голубым,И чем выше флаг, тем больше флягРазгружалось под ним.От жажды вываливая язык,Твердя лишь один глагол,Он стал тощее любых мощейИ, как Махатма, гол.Ибо янки и япы, алчные лапы,Его раздели всерьез,И вместо рубашки на нем, бедняжке,Нелепый повис «Альбатрос».
(Октябрь 1932)
EPILOGUE TO IBSEN'S GHOSTS
Dear quick, whose conscience buried deepThe grim old grouser has been salving,Permit one spectre more to peep.I am the ghost of Captain Alving.Silenced and smothered by my pastLike the lewd knight in dirty linenI struggle forth to swell the castAnd air a long suppressed opinion.For muddling weddings into wakesNo fool could vie with Parson Manders.I, though a dab at ducks and drakes,Let gooseys serve or sauce their ganders.My spouse bore me a blighted boy,Our slavey pupped a bouncing bitch.Paternity, thy name is joyWhen the wise child knows which is which.Both swear I am that selfsame manBy whom their infants were begotten.Explain, fate, if you care and canWhy one is sound and one is rotten.Olaf may plod his stony pathAnd live as chastely as SusannaYet pick up in some Turkish bathHis quantum satof Pox Romana.While Haakon hikes up primrose way,Spreeing and gleeing as he goes,To smirk upon his latter dayWithout a pimple on his nose.I gave it up I am afraidBut if I loafed and found it funRemember how a coyclad maidKnows how to take it out of one.The more I dither on and drinkMy midnight bowl of spirit punchThe firmlier I feel and thinkFriend Manders came too oft to lunch.Since scuttling ship Vikings like meReck not to whom the blame is laid,Y.M.C.A., V.D., T.B.Or Harbormaster of Port Said.Blame all and none and take to taskThe harlot's lure, the swain's desire.Heal by all means but hardly askDid this man sin or did his sire.The shack's ablaze. That canting scamp,The carpenter, has dished the parson.Now had they kept their powder dampLike me there would have been no arson.Nay more, were I not all I was,Weak, wanton, waster out and out,There would have been no world's applauseAnd damn all to write home about.
