Abram is being carried around the street,
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In anguish, the family goes behind the box,
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The widow screams louder than the sawmill
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And he has no money, no red hair.
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Sadly leaving the synagogue,
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wrapped in a big sheet,
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Abram lies in satin on his bare feet,
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Hands leaning on the motna.
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His boilers have already been tried on by the brother-in-law,
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And the arrows are shifting on the sly,
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And on people he swears that in nature
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I have never seen a more beautiful hero.
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Already in the morning they are ironing the mold in the spirits,
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Which was sewn to the deceased ...
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Evon brother in Moscow has a degree,
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But it doesn't have the proper look.
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As the procession marches
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Clothes are divided in the hut
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And the soul of the labukhs is taken out,
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And he drinks freebies.
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On the third nail while the widow wept
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And threw overseas cocaine,
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The prerequisite for a scandal is ripe -
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The deceased spoke from the ruins.
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Lined up like a silent stage
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With fear, Chaim swallowed his jaw,
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Voted to face in an oligophrenic
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And the bladder weakened.
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In a moment, many mourners disappeared,
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The widow suddenly became not funny at once.
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She screamed: "Gentlemen, fill the box,
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Everything has already been paid for a long time!”
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And immediately on the shovels
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There was a general demand and shortage.
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They threw the earth like three salaries
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For this work, everyone hangs.
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There are splendid commemorations.
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Relatives throw sausage.
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The deceased is huddled in a sheet
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In front of the doors to the Last Judgment. |