To where are you racing, "Troyka"
To where is your path?
The rider's either drunk of vodka
Or just simply taking a nap
The wheels are given to museum.
Museum is taken out by piece.
In every house there's a song
Or maybe it is just a moan.
As predicted by the saints
All is hanging on thin hair
And I'm watching these events
In ancient Russian despair
On ancient battlefield
There are no spears and no bones
They all were used as souvenirs
For tourists and visitors
Dobrynia spitted upon Russia
And makes plumbing in Milan
Alesha, albeit preacher's son
Had the icons sold at once
Just Ilyia is scaring girls
Wearing one sock out of pair
And I'm watching these events
In ancient Russian despair
At monastery walls
There is a panic and alarm
A shallow river drifted in
An ancient fourteen-handed god
The monks are swearing and swinging rods
And try to rescue him
But situation's getting worse
And god cries out "Let go of me".
And the abbot in female dress
Is jumping on the sand right there
And I'm watching these events
In ancient Russian despair
Above the stoned Moscow-city
Structures grow into the sky
The Turks are building images
Of holy Russia in no time
And all the nobles drive Toyotas
Distribute "Playboy" and "Vogue"
Wood and oil are sold to Europe
Nukes are sold to Eastern mobs
Hare Krishna are all marching
On Arbat, Tverskaya, Red Square.
I'm afraid I've had enough
Of ancient Russian despair
