(By Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, 1835.
Translated from the Russian by A. Baylin.)

A poor fiddler called upon
A rich castrato in his salon.
The singer dickless said: “Behold
My precious gems, my priceless gold.
When I grow bored, I count my treasure.
And you, my friend, for your own pleasure
What do you do?  What thing enthralls,
Diverts and keeps you occupied?”
The poor man to him replied:
“Me?  I just sit and scratch my balls.”