It's dawned on me suddenly, and for no obvious reason, that I can't go on living as I am.
The zest of life has vanished, only the skeleton remains unexpectedly vile.
I used to be better, I used to be better, I used to be better.
I used to be better, I used to be better, I used to be better.
Oh, Pierre, our merry, feasting crank, our most dear, most kind, most spartan eccentric,
the warm, hearty ration of the old school.
His purse is always empty, cause it's open to all, oh Pierre.
Just one of a hundred sad old men, living out their final days in Moscow.
I drink too much. Right now, my friend fights and bleeds, and I sit at home and read,
hours at a time, hours at my screen.
Anything, anything, abandoned to distraction, in order to forget we waste our lives drowning in wine.
I never thought that I'd end up like this. I used to be better, and the women, they all pity me,
cause I'm married, but not in love, frozen at the center.
Il est charmant, il a pas de sexe, he is charming, he has no sex.
Oh, Pierre, our merry, feasting crank, our most dear, most kind, most spartan eccentric,
the warm, hearty ration of the old school.
His purse is always empty, cause it's open to all, oh Pierre.
Just one of a hundred sad old men, living out their final days in Moscow.
There's a ringing in my head, there's a sickness in the world,
and everyone knows, but pretends that they don't see.
Oh, I'll sort it out later, but later never comes.
And how many men before, good Russian men, believing in goodness and truth,
entered that door with all their teeth and hair, and left it toothless and bald.
You empty and stupid, contented fellows, satisfied with your place.
I'm different from you, I'm different from you, I still want to do something.
Oh, do you struggle too?
I pity you, I pity me, I pity you.
I pity you, I pity me, I pity you.
I pity you.
I pity you.
