A victim of her circumstance I guess she lies there prone
Not seeking universal love but to be loved alone
As Diaghilev demanded, while Nijinsky went insane
I fully understand it without having her explain
The Bolshoi dancers had their chance now I prefer the streets
Behind the curtain there’s a man who noone ever meets
Business suits on prostitutes it’s warfare based on class
That photo of your daughter’s cute now won’t you let me pass?
History here created such a Bacchanalian waste
Attempts at Russian ballet, like my keys, they’ve been misplaced.
And now she casts a certain glance so I’ll be leaving soon
Almost anything is better than sitting in this room;
I just came here to disappear, don’t you be mad at me
A tragic bit of touching, a real touching tragedy