Lice stupidly prayed godding me,

Every morning they crawled through my clothes,

Every morning I killed them,—

Listen to their cracks,—

But they came again like quietly confident surf.

The white godlike marrow of mine

I gave, Russia, you:

Be Khlebnikov, be my mind.

Wedged piles in the people’s brain, and axes, too,

I built a small house of piles

“We’re the future-be-men”.

I’ve done all of this as a beggar,

As a thief whom everyone damned.