My friend has moved to Magadan;
Play him a fanfare, play him a fanfare.
He went himself, his own free man;
He wasn’t sent there, he wasn’t sent there.

It wasn’t that his luck turned bad
Or done to make somebody mad;
It wasn’t part of some big act:
He simply packed, he simply packed.

If someone asked him: "What’s it for?
Why just abandon your life at random?
The jails have killers by the score -
That’s where they crammed "em, that’s where they crammed’ em!"

He’d shrug - "Whatever people say
There’s more in Moscow anyway" -
Then pack up everything he can
For Magadan, for Magadan.

I wouldn’t say my race is run:
I’d jump the night train like in the old days;
But I won’t go to Magadan
Leaving my old ways, starting a new phase.

I’ll sing, my guitar on my knee,
Of all the things he’s going to see
Of all that’s left unseen, undone,
Of Magadan, of Magadan.

My friend had nothing left to lose;
It’s his decision, it’s his decision;
He won’t be beaten by the screws -
He’s not in prison, he’s not in prison.

But God has made for me a plan...
Or should I go to Magadan?
And like my friend just go to ground
And make no sound.