The Bossom Talk With My Son Poem by Bulat Okudzhava

1974

Your father, my son, is the lazy and cheat
of them worst in our age.
Ne'er used any hummer or plough in his deed.
It's true - I can give you my pledge.

When our earth was embraced with a war,
and killing had its highest price,
he, just with one wound, took himself very far
from death in the battle, at once.

When burnt down people were lagging to East,
and bitter was all their fate,
he got in warm trenches the special bliss -
the rifleman's position, well fed.

Not with tribune's words, nor with good, heavy picks
for thriving of his native lands -
he cunningly tries, using special tricks,
with lines to provide for us pants.

And, yet, don't be very severe with him
(I don't understand only - why),
though his full acquittal is only a dream,
Praise him being hale and alive.

May be, he'd be glad to live well in this world
(He has had enough of bad stuff),
But, though one could change his passport and shirt,
It's late to change one's own craft.