I have been born as Ivanoff,
And in the sweet childhood, snuffling nostrils in my magic cradle,
Gagarinym, Hrjushej and Stepashej I dreamed to become,
And Aunt Valej from the TV.
But my toys,
Made by the father from little branches of a black-and-white tree,
What is growing in the next court yard,
And beaten by the strict grandfather to a floor,
That dashing neighbour's children
Haven't rested in passion a fatherly gift,
Observed of my awakening sharp-sightedly,
Singing me: you are Ivanoff, Ivanoff, Ivanoff...
And then, when I have a little grown up
Also became old,
Dreams about Pyongyang even more often dreamed me,
Where I am - dear Kim Chen Yn,
Shaking with gentle bacon of cheeks
Bases of the Korean Universe,
Or dreams about Moscow,
Where I'm Pu Vladimir,
Where in narrow circles medical
For all is known under a name Peter.
But for some reason
I wake up again and again Ivanoff,
In this vile London,
And my toy washing growls under a window,
Cleared to life today
By black-and-white gang non-russian's,
And, saying goodbye to me for ever,
Suggests to return back -
To thin birches innocent,
To a psaltery, bears,
Bast shoes and sources...