You hear no dirge, the orchestra is rusty,
The orators are tired and forlorn;
And in the coffin lies no monarch gruff and crusty,
No, in the casket lies an ear of corn.
The coffin made so talentlessly by some drudge,
And following it thoughts so stale.
Whom should I mourn? Whom should I judge?
Whose heart, whose soul should I unveil?
Whom should I take, whose soul should I shake?
Whom should I curse for this murder distraught?
The corn is deceased, I must cry at his wake
With remorse and with petulance fraught.
Oh, ear of corn, why did they let you rot?
Oh, cob of corn, whom did you fault?
Oh, ear of corn, did you know that
Fertility and work must share with you your vault?
Sleepless nights and restless days,
Blisters, sweat, the pinch of torrid thoughts,
ATI this with you in you your coffin lays,
And in the heavy rain it rots…
Damn you, vile executors of schemes;
In whatever job you’ve borne
You execute a person’s dreams
Just as you murder ears of corn.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: Некролог кукурудзяному качанові, що згнив на заготпункті