Tattoos and dyed hair.
They collect dust in your dreams.
Popularity plays a duet with loneliness.
Isolation surfs on sighs and smiles.
You pull out the car breaks of your bitterness.
There’s always one more wire that you missed.
Your castles fold into a cardboard box then it all collapses.
Popularity is an antique that’s broken.
You no longer want it fixed.
Where is the syringe of cringe when you need it?
Why do you not want attention anymore?
So now you know why your younger
self doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore.
Goodbye.

The broth is thin, the stakes are low,
The bottom’s near, and off we go.
Wax your skis, prepare to slide —
The abyss waits on every side.

But here’s the catch: the tale's the same
In bigger lands with grander names.
The broth turns sour, the rot sets in,
Most drink despair, a bitter sin.

Few will rise, resist the game,
In this grotesque world of shame.


In Russian:

Марионеточные режимы маленьких банановых псевдогосударственных образований

Уровень пониже,
Так как щи пожиже:
Дно всё ближе, ближе —
Навострить лишь лыжи.
Только вот проблема:
В б'ольших та же тема —
Щишки прокисают,
И дерьмо хлебает
Большинство народца.
Мало кто бороться
Может — мир уродцев.

All that’s left is the rotting dead
A putrid offense to the senses
Devoid of all life that defined it,
Where the carrion feeders
Thrive in their stench -
Until there’s nothing left

We can be strangers if you like
We can talk about the weather
Our silly plans for the weekend
Or how life has been kind to us
Trust me, I'm a terrific actor
You'll hardly be able to tell

We can be strangers if you like
Or at least we can pretend that
It doesn't shred us to pieces...