И бутылка рома С утра мы грузим трюмы...

And a bottle of rum

In the morning we ship the orange holds
but you and I, two big assholes,
and this work is sheer grace.
As long as our old cap goes through the daggers
under the handle with a quick Spaniard,
deciding how to sell better
goods and sensitive services
on the north, west and a little south
we rum fill our stomach
looking at a nearby luger,
counting how chubby the burger is,
carrying daughter with a dowry, will live.
Fraulein has a white waist
and everything else is in place too,
dad, apparently, a fool:
robber with a brazen face
she won’t be able to miss such a baking,
and the burgher is obviously a kopeck.
But our business is to cheerfully flask to listen,
rather than rubbing possible victims into ears
about an unpleasant life outcome.
Once upon a time, mortgaged our souls,
and our skins dry our sea salt
no longer count which year;
we were hung on the royal yards
and no one was found kinder
than our captain gray-haired canalia,
and only black rum insides on us
when in the guise of gulls evil spirits
and sows the seed of death over water.

Oksana Shibanova