Ivanov is at the tram stop
Awaiting his chariot
Craving a pint of beer
Monday mornings are a slog
And around are ordinary people
Who jostle as they board
Stamping on Ivanov's feet
Really taking the wind from his sails
And he has nothing in common with them,
His fellow-citizens
He keeps Sartre in his pocket
They might have a fiver if you're lucky
Ivanov reads his book,
And along come the inspectors
Who fine Ivanov
Mondays are a real downer.
He lives on Petrogradskaya
In a shared flat
Between the kitchen and the toilet
And the toilet is always full
And people come to him
With cases of port
And they spend their lives
Comparing wines
And then they leave,
Leaving only the spellbound ladies
To stay with Ivanov until morning
And then the morning comes,
Misty and grey
Which supports the old hypothesis
That today is no different from yesterday
I think I shared a house with Ivanov
nowadays he'd be a hipster