Nostalgia for Old Russia Troika, where are you rushing off to? Where are you heading? The coachman has gorged himself on vodka again, or he's just laid down for a nap; The wheels have been given to the museum, and they've taken away the whole museum, In each house you can hear now a song, now a moan; And as the saints foretold, everything hangs by a thread, And I look on all this with nostalgia for Old Russia. There are neither spears nor bones on the ancient battle field-- They've gone as souvenirs to tourists and guests; Dobrynja spat on Russia and is fixing the gas in Milsin Although son of a priest, Aljosha has sold the entire iconostasis. A certain Ilja scares the girls, hopping around with one sock on, And I look on all this with nostalgia for Old Russia. Things are bad for Yaroslavna, she has no time to sob; She's in the office at 6:30, she has a briefing at 5:00 sharp; And all the boyars produce Playboy and Vogue in their Toyotas, Having sold the forests and oil to the West and SS-20's to the East; And Prince Vladimir, swearing, taxis the sea on a surfboard, And I look on all this with nostalgia for Old Russia. There is a big commotion by the monastery walls again, A fourteen-armed god has drifted toward them through a shallow stream, Screaming obscenities the monks wave spears and run to save him. And the god sees that things are bad and cries, "Let me go! Let me go!" And dressed in a woman's dress, the prior just rolls in the sand, And I look on all this with nostalgia for Old Russian. And the forests climb into the sky above Moscow And the Turks make a plaster cast of Holy Rus' in a half hour, And the finger of the guardian of the sacred place dances on the trigger, And a money sign appears on the plaque instead of a face, And Hari Krishna heads along the Arbat and Tverskaya Street And I'm afraid I've had my fill of nostalgia for Old Russia.
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