A troika speeds across the steppes one wintry Russian night;
It’s doing 20 per — for troikas, that’s the speed of light.
Ahead is lying town of Tomsk, where anxious footsteps fall:
They’re waiting for the troika and Zhivago’s first house call.
Dippy-dee-ayyyyyy….. dippy-dee-dooooooo. For
Zhivago’s first house call.
So through the blinding snow he goes, but he can’t see a thing;
And at the fork he takes a right — oops! That way lies Peking.
A quick U-turn — “Illegal!” yells a Cossack cop named Saul;
Ten rubles later Saul’s paid off, back to the first house call.
Diddle-dee-daayyyy; diddle-dee doooo! It’s
Back to the first house call.
Across the Volga, past the boatmen frozen to their oars;
A peasant tries to hitch a ride, but on the troika roars.
As villagers stare at Dr. Z. while watching him depart;
They wonder why in hell they cast an Arab in the part.
Past Minsk and Pinsk and Omsk to Tomsk, he finally arrives;
He’s greeted with some vodka and potatoes filled with chives.
And when the booze was gone, they took him to the patient’s room –
One look, Zhivago knew right then, the patient’s awful doom.
“What can I sayyyyy? Oi-yoi-oy-veyyyy. This
Ain’t such a great house call.”
“I cannot help this man,” he cried, “his ailment mystifies;
It could be mumps or measles or a windburn of the thighs.
To diagnose this case you’d need a practicing G.P.;
It happens that my specialty is gynecology.
But I’ll refer you to a doc who lives in Vishkovny.
I doubt if he makes house calls, he’s not sensitive like me.
Just give the patient aspirin, and be sure he stays in bed;
And if his body stays that stiff for three more days — he’s dead!