Translation of the song lyrics Art Brut - Myslovitz

Art Brut (original)

To do ludzi jest krzyk,
Delikatny tak.
To wolanie bez solw,
Chcesz uslyszec — patrz.
Radosc tworzy te mysl,
Rzezbi tak jak chce.
Zwalcza lek,
Granic mniej.
Wykluczony bez wad
Ktore mozna miec
Zachwyt dziecka to stan
Dla nich wiem, to sen
Tak bardzo inny,
A pewnie ten sam,
To moze jest tlem,
Jest gdzies tam.
Ktory z nich to jest,
Ten prawdziwy swiat.
Moj, Twoj, jej, albo wasz
Pewnie ich
Jego tez
Wiec chyba nasz.
I naiwni jak nikt
Zaden dZwiek czy szept
No i szczery ten gest,
Spontaniczny tez.
Jakby na przekor tym
Doskonale pieknym, znam
Tym, co sa,
Co w alejach gwiazd.
Ktory z nich to jest,
Ten prawdziwy swiat
Moj, Twoj, jej, wasz
Ich,
Jego tez,
Wiec chyba nasz.
Ktory z nich
To jest ten
Trafny punkt
Widac zal.
Jeszcze cos
Oprocz nas
z obu stron
Dzieje sie.
Kolorowy z drewna, ludzi tlum
malych kobiet, panow stu
muchomorow, sanek liczb
przytulaja sie, to nic.
Kalendarze, cyfry, pelno dat
autoportret, siedem pan,
w okularach siwych dam
dziwnych zwierzat, mnogosc klat
pod sukniami patrza na
swietosc, aniol, byki, twarz
oryginalna wiecznosc ma
przytulaja sie, przytulaja sie, przytulaja sie.

(translation)

It's to the people scream
Delicate yes.
It's a call without solvs,
You want to hear - watch.
Joy creates this thought
He will sculpt as he wants.
Combats the drug,
Less borders.
Excluded without defects
Which you can have
The delight of a child is a state
To them, I know it's a dream
So much different
And probably the same
This may be the background
It's somewhere there.
Which one is it,
This real world.
My, yours, her, or yours
Probably them
His too
So I guess ours.
And naive like no one
No sound or whisper
And this sincere gesture,
Spontaneous too.
As if in spite of this
Perfectly beautiful, I know
What they are
What in the avenues of stars.
Which one is it,
This real world
My, your, her, yours
Their,
His theses,
So I guess ours.
Which of them
It is this one
A good point
You can see the regret.
Something else
Except for us
from both sides
Happens.
Colorful of wood, people crowd
little women, gentlemen one hundred
toadstools, sleds of numbers
they hug, it's nothing.
Calendars, numbers, full dates
self-portrait, seven gentlemen,
with glasses of gray ladies
strange animals, a multitude of cages
underneath her dresses she looks at
holiness, angel, bulls, face
original eternity has
they hug, hug, hug each other.