Memories of a Russian Man Hangover by Vladimir Visotski

Oh, where I was yesterday - I couldn’t find,  if ever you kill me!

I only remember that walls were covered with wallpaper,

Remember Claudia was there and Angela with  knees,

Remember that I kissed them together.

And at the morning I got up -

They all started to tell me,

That  I scolded the  hostess sharp,

I wanted to  intimidate eveone in a wink;

As if I jumped  up around

compile  naked bare,

And my father, I boasted aloud,

General with great star.

And then I tore my  shirt, beat  myself  on the chest,

I said that everyone crude just had sold me out,

And they say that I didn’t let the guests catch a minute their breath -

I pestered them with inmates chords sounds.

And then me finished drinking, no more,

Because  me was completely tired,

Me began to smash the noble crystal on the floor,

Poured wine on the walls, admired

And the coffee set, having opened the window,

Managed anyway took and threw it out.

And no one could even say just a word to me then,

But then they suddenly slowly recovered.

They fell upon me in a crowd, began to tie my hands,

And in the end everyone had fun rather.

Some prank spat in my face,

And some poured vodka into my mouth,

And some jiggly man dance

Kicked painfully me in the stomach.

A young widow, fiancées,

Keeping fidelity to  her husband,

(After all, we only live once)

Took pity on me with no sound.

And I turned pale in the kitchen with a broken blood face,

I pretended been calm back down -

"Untie me!" I shouted, - "and that's the end of such a race!”

They untied me, but hid the forks out

That's when it all started, myself  as swine.

You can't describe it in plain words

And where did I get so much strength in hands of  mine

Like a wounded beast torned

I just went wild one last time, me,

Smashed out the windows and door,

And tore down  the balcony.

Oh, where was I yesterday — I can’t find it with a lantern,

I only remember that the walls were covered with wallpaper…

And the face remained, and the bruises on it. pattern

Well, where can I go now with the bruises either

If it were real true,

Well, at least a third,

There’s only thing left few:

Just lie down to mort.

It’s good that the widow

survive in a blithe -

She took pity on me own

And took me to live with…