Woman Hits by Andrey Voznesensky

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!