Hidding himself from his annoying glory,
In one the those United States,
In the wilderness and thickets of a system strange to us
Once lived, even better known than Judas,
The living creation of Hollywood,
The artist James Bond, spy, Agent 007.

The fellow was a star,
no if ands or buts,
It’s impossible to describe
his popularity.

But was the matter all a joke?
He was almost a demigod.
As well known as Marcello
and comparable to that puppy!

He hid himself in his suburban villa
So that his fans couldn’t bother him
While dying from boredom and melancholy.
But once they came to his apartment
Threw themselves on him and tore off
His last pants and jackets as souveniers.

And so he lived, like in a cage.
But he sweated in the cinema.
He fooled around
in various spy missions.

Someone walks in some kind of skin,
someone sleeps in an ashtray,
While the one
under the lampshade seduces someone.

And here, this artist - James Bond - his friends
From the government and private studios
Want to do a joint film with us.
So that the common folks wouldn’t find out,
He decided to travel to us under a blanket,
No matter, they’ll tear it to shreds anyhow.

But judge for yourself:
at the fences in the USA
All the hairy hippies
shaved off his hair,

They tore off his sweater,
bit off his wristwatch,
And took away the slabs
from the runway.

Here in Moscow he descends the ladder,
Puts a dollar in the porter’s hand
And covers up his face while walking.
Suddenly someone pulls up in a "GAZik" (Russian jeep) to the agent
he gives them a publicity photo instead of a passport,
Well, as they say, "khau du yu du" (how do you do).

A huge convoy
forms up -
They meet the champion
of bench marksmanship.

He hit everything there was,
he fired from the hip,
And the women went wild about him,
and the men as well.

Satisfied that they didn’t recognize him,
He took off the blanket in the "Nationale".
But, disregarding his face and accent,
There they called him a ragamuffin,
Who was pretending to be a foreigner
And he declared that he was allegedly an agent.

The doorman took him by the collar...
He decided to uncover himself,
"I am 0-7" - "You need an operator?
You’ll have to buy a token."

In his mouth foam
and bitter saliva flowed,
And in his superman
pose he sat down by the window.

But cinematographers came running
And they suppressed the misunderstanding,
And they changed pounds for rubels...
The cleaning lady yelled: "Here now,
You think that little agent is something.
In number nine we’ve got a prince from Somalia."