Vladimir Vysotsky. Who For What Runs.

The Sentimental Boxer’s Song.

A bang, a bang, once more a bang,


and then a bang again...

It’s Victor Gruzdev hits the bag


alas, it’s me today.

I’m hoping to survive this round,


I’m praying for the bell.

An uppercut, I’m on the ground,


and I’m not feeling well...

And while my keen rival


was hitting my nose,

He thought that his life is


like one of a rose.

The ref says, “Nine!” I’m half alive,


but on my feet again.

I dodge, I leap, I block, I dive


and thus even points I gain.

I don’t conserve my strength, by plan,


for rushing to a charge

I just can’t hit my fellow man,


I just don’t think it’s right.

But while my keen rival


was stomping my toes,

He thought that his life is


like one of a rose.

My fellow townsmen howl and cry,


I’m near to down their hopes.

My rival strives for a close fight,


while I attempt to dodge.

As he’s a Cossack, he’ll get it,


they’re really hard to shake.

I told him, “Friend, why not to sit?


ye’re tired, take a break!”

But he didn’t find out as


he breathed our close

And thought that his life is


like one of a rose.

He keeps on hitting with a snort,


the curtain soon must fall...

Don’t call this murder it’s the sport


of strong men and so on!

He’s reached complete exhaustion, and


collapses with a sigh...

The ref did lift up my right hand,


which hadn’t hurt even a fly.

He lay there and thought that


the life of a rose

Belongs to the persons


who don’t strive for force.

1966.

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