Uncle Misha, a Drunkard

    Next door, inside our building, Lived a great old drunkard soul. All the while he staggered round us, He exacted quite a toll. Here he comes now with his bottle, Calling on his friends to dine. After drinking, as is custom, Brawling is their final sign. "That"s my bottle!" Misha shouted. "No, I paid!" the other cried. In a fury, Uncle Misha Takes a brick-half to his side. Thank the Lord he"s finally vanished, Life is calmer than before. No one comes in rags a-knocking, Begging glasses at our door.