Where to you're rushing, Troika? Where are you heading for?
The coachman is rather tipsy, or dozing on his box
The cartwheels are on display, but the museum is gone
All the tenants in their homes either mourn, or sing same song
As the saints anticipated - world is hanging by a thread
I am confident enough that my Old Russia is dead.
On ancient battlefield there're neither spears, nor bones,
They are let out for tourists as presents and loans
Dobrynya's fixing pipes in Italy, he's chosen different bias
Alyosha sold his father's icons, purchased booze for people's tithe
Babes are frightened to death watching Ilya in one sock
I am sorry for Old Russia around the clock.
Queen Yaroslavna is as busy as airconditioner in hell
Half past six she's in her office, she's back home- hard to tell
Her noble knights all drive "Toyotas", publish "Playboy" and "Vogue"
Wood and oil exported westwards, SS-20 shipped off dock
King Vladimir cursing badly, is surfriding in the sea
Watching debris of Old Russia is too painful for me.
At the monastery walls the mess is reaching its peak
God with fourteen grasping arms is drifting down a shallow creek
The monks are brandishing their staves, dash up to offer Him help
God, realizing He's in danger, starts to holler and yelp
Dancing pope in female garments intensifies all this boom
Now I'm sure - my Old Russia's sent to go to its Doom.
High above the stoned Moscow scaffolds creep into sky
Turks erect Old Slavic waxworks in the twinkling of an eye
Annoyed clergy play with triggers, seeking pretext to shoot
Dollar signs in ancient icons silhouetting through the soot
Krishna worshippers parading, show religious relief
I'm afraid, I had enough of the Old Russian grief.
