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The Three Cherry Sisters Karamazov His name was Boris Makaloff Alexis Gregor Mackaloff, His neighbors called him Grisha In their quaintly Russian style. His life was sad but lecherous Mid landscape bleak and treacherous Where Nevsky Prospekt pleases And only man is vile. He loved his cousin Anushka Andreiovanya Babushka, A gloomy dipsomaniac Called Sonia by all. A girl of low mentality Which, in that grim locality, Did not impair a maiden's Popularity at all. With ardent love did she adore A student known as Fyodor, A circumstance that filled our hero Grisha with dismay; So when his love she threw aside He threatened sudden suicide (A popular diversion In a merry Russian play). "Alas," he muttered sourly, "I'm growing madder hourly. Don't spurn me, little mother, For this unattractive guy. I may say, without vanity, For unalloyed insanity You'll have a job to find a lad As lunatic as I." "Although," retorted Anushka Andreiovanya Babushka, "Your maudlin, drunken lunacy My girlish heart has swayed, Though Fyodor's inferior, He's gloomier and drearier, A prime consideration to A simple Russian maid." Her ancient servant, Rubinoff, Irked "You're hardly boob enough To want to wed a student So devoid of worldly goods." Said Fyodor dejectedly, Arriving unexpectedly, but a simple Muscovite, But how I love the woods! "This life is all futility And chronic imbecility; It's desolate and empty as A broken samovar." "Alas! alack!" cried Sonia, "I've galloping pneumonia!" And burst into a melancholy Tune on the guitar. "Now, by our good St. Nicholas, This all is too ridikilous!" Cried Grisha with asperity, and Drew a murderous gun. "My paranoidal tendency Is gaining the ascendancy. Let's kill this fellow Fyodor In clean and playful fun." "Alas," retorted Anushka Andreiovanya Babushka, "That pistol is unloaded That you're pointing at his head." Cried Grisha, sad and tearfully, fates have tricked me fearfully. Let's get a flask of vodka, and Get ossified instead." So, as this project germinates The play abruptly terminates. (A custom of the Russians to Leave everything in doubt.) Although I've seen the best of them By Tchekoff and the rest of them I've not the slightest notion what The devil they're about. The lyrics are by Newman Levy, published in Theatre Guyed, 1933, Alfred A. Knopf, NY. It can easily be sung to the tune of STENKA RAZIN. SH Oct00
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