I'm a folk artist, by God and the state, I'll paint you joy, wealth, and a fortunate fate! I'll write you riches, freedom, and grace, But in the picture, some nastiness takes place?! I paint a paycheck – turn out coupons instead, I paint freedom – but obstacles spread. Instead of life's feast, routine takes its hold, Instead of happiness, ruins unfold?! What kind of a terrible artist am I? What fails with my brush, what’s wrong with my try? I can't, though I weep, no skill, though I cry! Just let me go, I'm old. Homeward I'll fly! I wanted to sketch you lakes, forests so grand, Where nature thrives, with birches at hand. But the brush let me down, there are fingers on it tight – Only stumps and ravines emerge with all their blight. Inspired by an idea - I paint of renown! I took a grand easel, in finery I'm crowned. But war and suffering creep onto the canvas so dire, Against my own plans, prayers, and my strong desire! What kind of a terrible artist am I? What fails with my brush, what’s wrong with my try? I can't, though I weep, no skill, though I cry! Just let me go, I'm old. Homeward I'll fly! Or maybe it's not about talent, you see? But someone's just stealing, constantly? Brushes to the left, paints to the right, Quietly trading canvases by night? Instead of squirrel brushes - just soap on a rope, Instead of foreign paints – just chalk with new hope. That's why the paintings are crooked and poor, May the people forgive the dauber, and the gods restore! I write that all's great, lovely and fine, But on canvas appears that the living's a bind. I paint enemies – in battle victorious we stand, But as a result on the canvas, we are broken in the land. I tried so hard, I promise, I sweated so much! But only filth comes out, inexplicable to touch?! Clearly the brush won't be fooled knows all the truth. Is it a sign for me, to give up, forsooth? What kind of a terrible artist am I? What fails with my brush, what’s wrong with my try? I can't, though I weep, no skill, though I cry! Just let me go, I'm old. Homeward I'll fly! Let those take the brushes, who're with talent marked, Who won't trade inspiration for a liver embarked. Who will write for the people a picture so true, That's deserved by them, not what they skew. Who will write for the people a picture so true, That's deserved by them, not what they skew.