As parts of my body wither,
My bones are eager to desiccate.
My eyes rove hither and thither,
As though I felt the urge to defecate.
I heard death grants solace.
Verily, my vices need grace.
I believe my end is near,
For I to meet my merciful maker.
And atone for the sins I smear,
On the lass who was a truth-seeker.
So, as I lay dying now
My body should remain in Moscow,
Where I shall rot and die
And nobody should bother to cry.