Стихотворения

I drove out, all tarred and feathered, from the Grand Palais Potin
But I met with foul disaster in the Place Saint Augustin.
My charioteer collided — with the shock I did explode
And the force of my emotions shot my liver on the road.

Up steps a dapper sergeant with his pencil and his book.
Our names and our convictions down in Lieber's code he took.
Then I hailed another driver and resumed my swanee way.
They couldn't find my liver but I hadn't time to stay.

When we reached the gates of Paris cries the boss at the Octroi:
Holy Poule, what's this I'm seeing? Can it be Grandmother Loye?
When Caesar got the bird she was the dindy of the flock
But she must have boxed a round or two with some old turkey cock.

I ruffled up my plumage and proclaimed with eagle's pride:
You jackdaw, these are truffles and not blues on my backside.
Mind,

said he, that one's a chestnut. There's my bill                                                    and here's my thanks
And now please search through your stuffing and fork out
                                                    that fifty francs.

At last I reached the banquet-hall — and what a sight to see!
I felt myself transported back among the Osmanli.
I poured myself a bubbly flask and raised the golden horn
With three cheers for good old Turkey and the roost where
                                                                              I was born.

I shook claws with all the hommes and bowed to blonde and brune
The mistress made a signal and the mujik called the tune.
Madamina read a message from the Big Noise of her State
After which we crowed in unison: That Turco's talking straight!

We settled down to feed and, if you want to know my mind,
I thought that I could gobble but they left me picked behind.
They crammed their chops till cockshout when like
ostriches they ran To hunt my missing liver round the Place Saint Augustin.

Envoi

Still I'll lift my glass to Gallia and augur that we may
Untroubled in her dovecote dwell till next Thanksgiving Day
So let every Gallic gander pass the sauceboat to his goose —
And let's all play happy homing though our liver's on the loose.

(November 1937)

БАЛЛАДА. ИСПОЛНЯЕМАЯ ИНДЕЙКОЙ В ДЕНЬ БЛАГОДАРЕНИЯ

Эй, лэрды, леди, все сюда, услышьте песнь мою,
Про День Благодарения я нынче вам спою.
К семейству Джоласов меня позвали на жаркое,
Мясник умыл меня, набил, зашил и всё такое.

И вот в карете я качу из Гран-Пале Потэн,
Но попадаю в переплет на Пляс Сен-Огюстэн:
В столб въехал наш кабриолет, я лопнула от злости,
Печенка выпала в кювет — ну как тут ехать в гости?