Ancient Russian Blues Where are you rushing, troika? Where are you headed for? The coachman's drunk on vodka again, or else he went to sleep, The wheels were sent to a museum; they hauled the museum off, In every home arises either a song or a groan, Just as the saints foretold, everything hangs by a thread, As I look upon it all I get the ancient Russian blues. . . On the ancient field of battle there are neither spears nor bones, They all went as souvenirs for tourists and visitors, Dobrinya said, "The hell with Russia!"; now he's a plumber in Milan, Alyosha, though a priest's son, sold off every last icon, Ilya gallops all alone in just one sock and scares the girls, As I look upon it all I get the ancient Russian blues. . . Yaroslavna's got her problems; she's got no time for weeping, She's in the office from 6:30; at 5 she's got a briefing, All her boyars in Toyotas putting out Playboy and Vogue, Sold our lumber and oil to the West, our SS-20s to the East, Prince Vladimir, cursing, rides his surfboard out to sea, As I look upon it all I get the ancient Russian blues. . . At the monastery walls, there's a panic once again, Along the shallow stream there swims a god with fourteen hands. The monks run out to save it, they wave their stakes and curse, The god sees the sorry state of things, and shouts, "Leave me alone!" The abbot wears a lady's dress and skips upon the sand, As I look upon it all I get the ancient Russian blues. . . And over wasted Moscow scaffolds climb into the sky, The Turks build replicas of Holy Rus' in half an hour, The holy places' guardians have their fingers on the trigger, The sign of money appears on icons, instead of saints' faces, Hare Krishnas in formation walk the Arbat and Tverskaya, I fear I've had it up to here with the ancient Russian blues. . .
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