Itís my fate till the end, till the cross,
Shout till Iím coarse, after that only numb,
To pursue and argue, till the mouth has froth,
That itís all wrong, that itís not right!
That the hucksters are lying about Christís mistakes,
That until the flagstone would press into dirt,
Three hundred years under the Tartar yoke were all a waste,
That was just it - hundreds years of indigence and shame.
But there was Ivan Kalita who did what he could,
And not only one but many who stood up to all,
The sweat of goodwill and the revolts in vain.
Pugachov, blood, and misery again...
Let the people not get it at first,
Iíll repeat it again even in the image of a fool.
But sometimes even the theme isnít worth it,
And the vanity is the same old vain...
I am breaking my nerve, guys, to do what I can,
And someday one of you may for me light a candle,
For the naked nervesí sting as I sing and I choke,
For the jolly manner in which I am joking...