A Cloud in Trousers
dreaming on a softened brain,
like an over-fed lackey on a greasy settee,
with my heart's bloody tatters I'll mock again;
ill-mannered and caustic, I'll mock to excess.
Of grandfatherly tenderness I'm devoid,
there's not a single grey hair in my soul!
Thundering the world with the might of my voice,
I’ll walk by — a handsome,
You lay your love on a violin.
The crude lay their love on a drum.
but you can't, like me, turn inside-out entirely,
and nothing but human lips become!
Out of chintz-covered drawing-rooms,
come and learn-
decorous bureaucrats of angelic leagues.
and you whose lips are calmly thumbed,
as a cook turns over cookery-book leaves.
If you like-
I'll be furiously flesh elemental,
or - changing to tones that the sunset arouses -
if you like-
I'll be extraordinary gentle,
not a man, but - a cloud in trousers!
- Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893-1930)