In ninteenth century Russia we write letters
We write letters
We put down in writing what is happening in our minds
Once it's on the paper we feel better
We feel better
It's like some kind of clarity when the letter's done and signed
Dear Andre
Dear old friend how goes the war
Do we march on the french splendidly?
Do our cannons crack and cry?
Do our bullets whistle and sing?
Does the air reek with smoke?
I wish I were there
With death at my heels
Dolokov is recovering
He will be alright, the good man
Should have been me
I am a most rediculous man
And Natasha is in town
I hear she is more beautiful than ever
How I envy you and your happiness
Here at home I drink and read
