Garcon #2, Garcon #2, The leaves have withered on our boughs, And perhaps what they say is true, Everything’s only a dream, Garcon #2. Here’s the table where I drank, here’s scotch on the rocks; The drink’s turned to dust, the table’s stuck in a museum. And here behind the glass Are mummies of all my closest friends; And I only left for five minutes to buy a pack of smokes. I went out, passing the Latin Quarter, Rolled around Camden Lock, Nevskii and Tverskaya; I left religious, but returned secular, But I could have fallen, and all the same managed not to. Thus Garcon #2, Garcon #2, Intellect burns or it hardly glimmers, But sense is dead, joy is mine, and life goes on, And everything’s only a dream, Garcon #2. The chimes are flowing like chrism; Oh, my soul, stand and offer a prayer— What are you in a hurry for? There’s silence here, Beatle icons, incense-hashish; But for me it was all the same—only you shone. Thus Garcon #2, Garcon #2, In the cemetery it’s quiet; Flowers and grass cover our coffins, And it seems the rumour is true, And everything’s only a dream, Garcon #2; But if this is a dream, what are you standing there for, Garcon #2?