I die of thirst beside the fountain 
I'm hot as fire, I'm shaking tooth on tooth 
In my own country I'm in a distant land 
Beside the blaze I'm shivering in flames 
Naked as a worm, dressed like a president 
I laugh in tears and hope in despair 
I cheer up in sad hopelessness 
I'm joyful and no pleasure's anywhere 
I'm powerful and lack all force and strength 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

I'm sure of nothing but what is uncertain 
Find nothing obscure but the obvious 
Doubt nothing but the certainties 
Knowledge to me is mere accident
I keep winning and remain the loser 
At dawn I say "I bid you good night"
Lying down I'm afraid of falling 
I'm so rich I haven't a penny 
I await an inheritance and am no one's heir 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

I never work and yet I labor 
To acquire goods I don't even want 
Kind words irritate me most 
He who speaks true deceives me worst 
A friend is someone who makes me think 
A white swan is a black crow 
The people who harm me think they help 
Lies and truth today I see they're one
I remember everything, my mind's a blank 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

Merciful Prince may it please you to know 
I understand much and have no wit or learning 
I'm biased against all laws impartially 
What's next to do? Redeem my pawned goods again! 
Warmly welcomed, always turned away.

Le Testament: Rondeau

Death, I cry out at your harshness,

That stole my girl away from me,

Yet you’re not satisfied I see

Until I languish in distress.

Since then I’ve lost all liveliness:

What harm alive, to you, was she?

Death, I cry out at your harshness,

That stole my girl away from me.

Two we were, with one heart blessed:

If heart’s dead, yes, then I foresee,

I’ll die, or I must lifeless be,

Like those statues made of lead.

Ballade: Epistre

Have pity now, have pity now on me,

If you at least would, friends of mine.

I’m in the depths, not holly or may,

In exile, where I’ve been consigned

By Fortune, as God too has designed.

Girls, lovers, youngsters, fresh to hand,

Dancers, tumblers that leap like lambs,

Agile as arrows, like shots from a cannon,

Throats tinkling, clear as bells on rams,

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Singers, singing in lawless freedom,

Jokers, pleasant in word and deed,

Run free of false gold, alloy, come,

Men of wit – somewhat deaf indeed –

Hurry, be quick now, he’s dying poor man.

Makers of lays, motets and rondeaux,

Will you bring him warmth when he’s down below?

No lightning or storm reach where he’s gone.

With these thick walls they’ve blinded him so.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Come see him here, in his piteous plight,

Noblemen, free of tax and tithe,

Holding nothing by king or emperor’s right,

But by grace of the God of Paradise.

Sundays and Tuesdays he fasts and sighs,

His teeth are as sharp as the rats’ below,

After dry bread, and no gateaux,

Water for soup that floats his guts along.

With no table or chair, he’s lying low.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Beg the king’s pardon for me, and seal,

And a basket to raise me, I’ll sit upon:

So pigs behave, to each other, they say,

When one pig squeals, all rush that way.

Will you leave him here, your poor old Villon?

Painters, dip your brushes
In the bustle of Moscow yards and in the dawn.
That your brushes would be like leaves,
Like leaves, like leaves in November.

Dip your brush into the blue,
By the forgotten city's tradition .
Draw diligently and with love,
Such love with we are walking down Tverskaya street.

Let the pavement will rock as a come round.
Let it will began what it has not begun yet .
You draw, you draw, you will be reckoned.
Why we need guess, have we succeeded or not?

You, as a judges, draw our destiny,
Our winter, our summer and spring.
Nothing that we are strangers, you draw,
I will explain later that it is unclear.

The song can be found on this site, but it doesn't let me copy it.

Over those
         whom  sleep eternal claimed
that lean,
         harsh winter
                     spread
                           a pall.
What  are words!
              Words
                   are lame!
On the Volga sores
                 I refuse
                         to dwell.
Of a string of days
                  I choose
                          to speak,
akin
   to a thousand others,
                        bleak,
pushed on
        by the years,
                     oarsmen eager,
not over-fat
           nor
              over-meagre.
If ever
      something of worth
                        I wrote
it was all
        the  fault
of a pair
        of eyes-
                 bottomless skies,
my  beloved's eyes.
Huge  they are,
round,
dark brown,
with a speck
           of hazel,
coal-hot,
       blazing.
The  phone's gone
                stark-raving mad,
an axe's
       blunt edge
                 striking the ear:
                                  wham!
Round  the huge brown  eyes -
                            pads:
hunger's
       to blame.
Doctor's orders:
for the eyes
           to be able
to eye
      the world,

heat the place,
put greens
         on the table.
By their curly green tails -
                           behold!-
I'm holding
          two  carrots
                     crunchy.
They're not
          for my  stew:
I'm taking them to
my sweetheart,
             for her
                    to munch.
Boxes of sweets
              and flowers
                         freely
I handed  out,
             but
                I recall
that those carrots
                 plus firewood
                (half a billet)
were
   the most precious
                    gift
                        of all.
Thrust under my arm
                  are
damp pieces of wood:
                   knobby sticks,
             eyebrow-thick.
Face puffy,
eyes-splits:
it's
   malnutrition.
Greens and care -
                 eyes clear.
Bigger than saucers,
                  they eye
                          the Revolution.
Easier for me
            than for most
            (it's no boast!)
Because I'm
Mayakovsky.

I sit and chew
a fresh
piece of horse flesh.
The door whines.
My kid sister.
"Hullo!"
"Hullo!"
"Volodya, listen,
it's New Year's tomorrow.
Got some salt
            I could borrow?"
"A pinch,
        Wet  too.
Here,
    let's divide it in two."
Wading  through  snow,
                     fighting fear,
with an
       "Oh, dear,
                 how'll I keep on my feet!"
Olga  stumbles along
the icy,
       three-mile long
                      Presnya Street.
Home
   to salt her potatoes
                       she hastens.
Frost
    walks
         beside her,
grows fierce,
            inches
closer,
     tickles
            and  pinches.
"Gimme it!
         Isn't that salt
                        you're hiding?"
Home at last,
            and didn't lose it.
But how  use it?
To  her fingers
             it's frozen fast.
Behind  the wall
              shuffling feet.
"Here,  wife,
           we gotta eat.
Trade  my  coat
             for millet,
                       will ye?"
Look  through the pane-
it's snowing again.
The snow  falls,
covering all.
Soft its step,
           yes,
              and  light.
Moscow's
        a cliff,
              bare
                  and white.
Snow lies
        in banks
                and drifts.
Of forests
        the skeleton clings
                          to the cliff.
Daybreak.
        Into the sky's thick shawl
the sun,
       a louse,
              crawls.
December's late dawn,
                    worn out,
                             shivery,
hangs
    over Moscow
               like typhus fever.
Storm  clouds vagrant
to fat lands migrate.
Wrapped  in haze,
its chest sticking out,
                   America  lies.
What  is it doing? -
                   Lapping up
coffee
     and cocoa
              by  the cup.
Into your face,
              thick as the snout
of a good-sized pig,
         than a round tray rounder,
from  this hungering land of ours
                               I shout:
My love
      for my land
                 is boundless!

You can forget
            when
                and where
you stuffed
         your craw
                  and your belly,
                                 but
the land
       you hungered with
                        you can never
as long as you live and breathe
                              forget!