(to the tune of Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing")
I want my, I want my NKVD.
I want my, I want my NKVD.
Russian mobster, look like lobster
Got a Lubyanka mamma in a dacha on the old Black Sea.
That ain't freedom; that is way they screw you.
It's freedom for nothin' cause nothing's free.
That ain't freedom; that's the way they screw you.
Lemme tell ya, them guys ain't dumb.
Sell your sister, like transistor.
Suitcase bomb, you can have some fun.
We stocking GUM with crates of fucking blue jeans.
Designer label posteriors.
We got to please these Euro tourists.
We're working for nomenklatura.
Here comes new boss
Just like old boss.
Lemme tell you, these guys are worse.
A bullet in the brain can be an act of mercy.
A brain that's full of pain is lifetime curse.
We stocking GUM with crates of fucking blue jeans.
Designer label posteriors.
We got to please these Euro tourists.
We're working for the nomenklatura.
Look at them prestoopniks.
That's the way you do it!
Brains just like a monkey's.
They do what they do and don't know it's crime.
That ain't freedom; that's the way they screw you.
Papa Joe made the trains run on time.
I want my, I want my NKVD.
I want my, I want my NKVD.
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Art, it seems to me, is a case of imaginative sympathy. Even the low art of sketch comedy.
ReplyDeleteIn this sketch, I put myself inside the skin of an ordinary Russian who feels betrayed by the empty rhetoric of “freedom.”
America kicked Hitler’s ass – and gave Germany the Marshall Plan. We did the same thing to Russia over a longer period of time. We gave them rhetoric and let them go hang.
This is meant to be funny.
But it makes me sad.