In whose restaurant, in whose country - I can\'t remember,
but at midnight to a hair,
there are six men, there is a table, there is New Year,
and the angry woman - hits there!
Perhaps the company, where glances stick like bath
leaves, did not suit her?
It no means for what; they deserve it -
she went over their faces, like they’are rinsed laundry.
Hit, woman! Hit, my dear! Hit, vengeful! rather,
Slap mayonnaise on the bald man in suspenders.
Hit, woman!