Vologda is so full of mud
They should plant crops on the freeway
But where is the Vologda sun
Vodka and tea on a dark morning
The Samovar bubbles Vologda away
Animal skin oh so soft to the corns on my soul
When I lived with you
I used to pray
But I have to be in Vologda
As of yesterday
The snow has gorged on my cherries
I will dig for potatoes
Buried in minds of ice
I will write some morose nonsense
And drink the winter away.
I climbed Pushkin
To wipe the bird shit off his shoulders
In panic you bought me Louis Armstrong
To contain my madness
You make such fabulous walnut sauce
Smooth as the pebbles collected from
Nakhodka beach
Do you remember the reach
Of the fisherman’s boat
Comrades singing away tonight
To bring in a smuggled tomorrow.
