Konchalovski Hace Rato Que No Monsta En Lada

I can't read any more of those books
from Raduga Publishing, from Progreso Publishing.
I won't enjoy that Uncle Styopa
with his crazy height and awful clothes.
I can't deny my eyes are burning.
Mayakovsky lets the cowards crawl now
and I can't sip black tea in the afternoons.
The Bolshoi Theater hasn't been looted yet
there are Moscow Nights, organized crime
Mosfilm Studios must have shut down for good.

I won't get emotional over "Siberiada" again.
Konchalovski hasn't driven a Lada in a while.
I can't enjoy those Olympics
with the Soviets winning all the medals.
Kasánkina screams: don't leave me alone.
Serguei Bubka gets revenge, drinks Coca-Cola
with Salenko, who plays in the Spanish League.

Someone asked me if I read "Capital":
Yeah, but I didn't like it, 'cause the heroine dies in the end.
Anyway, I don't like all this fictional economics
that this guy Karl Marx wrote.

Now that the censors aren't whispering low
we can laugh at their little puppets.
Now that the ministers have changed the flags
we can talk shit about their light industry.
Today, with the stamp of the defeated on my forehead
and being accused of walls that finally fell
I can be post-modern, lose my sense.
Renounce the utopias I believe in
or take it out on the whole law of desire
with Lenin's mummy and his Mausoleum.

Today, with only the hangover from vodka left
I refuse, my love, to change my jacket.
Today, as the Konsomoles are passing on everything
hold me tight, my girl, and don't leave me alone.
And while Fukuyama angrily repeats
that we're at the end of the world's history
my friend Benedetti opens the second volume.

Someone asked me if I read "Capital":
Yeah, but I didn't like it, 'cause the heroine dies in the end.
Anyway, these three-volume novels don't do it for me
that this guy Karl Marx wrote.