I enter my apartment block - there they are again
Smoking right on the stairway
Leaving burn marks on the ceiling with matches
At home, they have kids growing up
Their brain works, and they
Test their strength with crossword puzzles
Stupid, rude people; six letters:
These, my son, are morons!
I turn on my TV - there they are
Sitting in their plus-size suits
Strenously trying to look smart
Sleeping in the State Duma
One's red-faced, talking gibberish
Another's blaming the USA
And that's how they exist (for many years now):
Typical degenerates!
By the apartment, on the bench, these people are sitting
And screaming profanities loudly
Arguing about life in the USSR
Someone declares he's a soldier
Vodka from the bottle, some beer on top of that
Next to them - a pile of cigarette butts
It's best to look at them from a distance:
These, my son, are assholes!
Why is it that common courtesy
Is understood by them as weakness?
Why does one of them always, without fail
Try to do something mean to you?
Why is it that nothing changes
Even though the years are flying by?
It's simple, my son: in life, we oftentimes meet
Various kinds of dickheads!