Oh, Валера, thou art a knave of such lowly stock, A dolt, a fool, whose wit doth mock The very shadows that dance upon the wall, For thou art but a jest, a witless thrall. In all thy bluster, naught but folly speaks, A vacant mind, where wisdom never peaks. Thy name, a byword for the base and vile, A fool’s errand, lost in thine own guile. So take thy leave, thou art a pox on thought, A wretched fool, in ignorance caught. Mayhap in silence, thou shalt find some peace, For in thy chatter, all reason doth cease.