Though this genre’s out of fashion,
If there’s a poet, there must be an ode.
This verse imitates an ode,
Or something in that mode.
“Golden Time”—(not about currency,
Just so you know)—
I once heard somewhere,
Someone said to someone else:
“I adore children,
Or rather—the work itself.
Search the whole wide world—
Without children, there’s no joy.”
No doubt, for the belt,
God created Kremin.
He changed his mind—today
Let the poet make his mark.
By God’s whim,
We now have no peace.
Yet all turned out well—
Look at that big baby!
Barely tapping little feet,
Yet, behold, he does not keep silent.
Straightaway, he starts to roar,
In bass about his mother.
He shouts, never quiets,
And never dries his throat.
I declare, not joking—
A very clever child.
Too bad he reaches for newspapers;
Don’t do that, little one.
Smack all the newspapermen—
This isn’t for the little ones.
Better listen to mom and dad.
Don’t be shy to take the paw
If an uncle extends a hand.
Don’t blush when looking at the uncle;
Give him something. Why? You’ll see later.
And don’t reach for the breasts—
There won’t be enough for you.
Better continue to yell:
“They won’t let the child live!”
Then you’ll be good,
Today and always.
And being good,
You’ll live a thousand years.
Allow me to report:
I’ll teach how to live,
Explain what children love,
Though I fear I’ll be smacked.
I feel the phrase looming:
“Wrap it up, you rascal!
Don’t pull the ox by its tail!
When will you make your toast?”
So, before they beat me up,
Without asking for forgiveness,
Prepare the snacks.
We drink a toast to Dima,
To Mityushka.
The little one loves toys:
Bubbles and small cups,
Pens and paper,
A rascal who loves books,
For forty years now,
Because this rascal is—
A remarkable poet.
By giving birth to such a son,
Ukraine can be proud.
All friends are proud,
And of course, I am too.
So with the poet
We drink forty times in a row.
Let the fortieth summer
Multiply in a square.