Гриша Шорь - Иваныч
текст песни

We'll play dominoes on the wet street,
Let's chip in a little and get some wine.
Our janitor, Ivanovich, an old partisan,
Will cut some bread and pour it into a glass.
The street slush, bustle, and hustle,
Everyone who's forgotten is clean on the shoulder straps.
It's fashionable now to shout, "Glory to the medals," but humiliation hurts the boys.
Beauty, of course, freedom isn't a military discipline,
Such freedom makes one's head ache.
He has emptiness and darkness in his heart,
He survived his wife's child's cancer.
He bravely fought in two Chechen wars,
And now he's given up and completely lost.
The Motherland doesn't need an old coat.
It seems he's not shell-shocked, but his soul is a mess.
Every moment of life is lived with honor.
He sits down, smokes, and sleeps quietly.
He dreams of the Virgin Mary, the faces of all the saints.
Let everyone pray for relatives
Yours