That’s, I’m sure, a vampire
Gnaws on bones, bloody-lipped.
—A. S. Pushkin. “Vurdalak,” Songs of Western Slavs
(Это, верно, кости гложет
—А. С. Пушкин. “Вурдалак”, Песни западных славян)
What’s in the mirror that you see?
No bloody fangs, which would be fitting:
you feed on corpses of your victims.
You make them as you drink your tea.
You are no ghoul from fairy tales:
there’s been no one that’s been as horrid.
This is your time. But see, before it,
There were some others, and they failed.
One placed a bullet in his brain.
The other choked on his vomit.
The end is near. You postpone it:
you’ll murder more—but that’s in vain.
You should have grown fangs, a horn,
a snout that you’ve almost grown,
while sitting on your trashy throne.
When you are dead, no one will mourn.