I was once a grade-six metalworker.
I spent money like water, you see -
For my wages would stretch even further
With the bonus they paid quarterly.
If you drink - now, don’t take this the wrong way -
Then you’ve got to have plenty of dough.
And I had in Ryazan a fiancee
And in Moscow two tarts on the go.
To Ryazan I sent letters and presents;
To the tarts I’d bring wine and myself.
Every evening was just like a penance
And at night it was nothing but hell.
My work suffered, I got into trouble,
I was run down and sore as could be;
My strength wasn’t enough - you’d need double -
Nor the bonus they paid quarterly.
I had rings round my eyes and deep wrinkles.
"Go to hell, girls!" I thought finally.
"Find another guy, loaded and single,
For my health is more precious to me."
I felt better than I had for ages;
Life became more like it ought to be.
On my own I would drink all my wages
And the bonus they paid quarterly.