| Now the thunder of shells, then the sound of castanets
|
| And only the weak, friend, there is no place here
|
| "Viva la revolucion" - guitar sings
|
| Viva comandante Che Guevara
|
| Serpent:
|
| Everything froze until dawn, the order is not to go anywhere
|
| It’s as if we are not here, but at the same time we are here
|
| In this nest we can sit stupidly all day
|
| Stupidly idle, here, in addition to everything, it’s gloomy everywhere,
|
| And at night we drive sadness, only tea warms
|
| While we listen to how this jungle is silent
|
| There are a hundred of us here desperate, ready to cut from the shoulder
|
| Stop! |
| Who goes? |
| Answer!
|
| Hey, what are you? |
| And, this is your own, with parcels
|
| With spoons, forks, mugs, plates, bottles
|
| The nearest village gives us all the rubbish.
|
| Everything will be useful to us, because we even sleep on trees!
|
| Today everyone wants freedom, truth. |
| I want too,
|
| Therefore, I'm sticking out here on the very tonsils
|
| There is no news from the brides,
|
| Instead of them, Ernesto Che And he, at times, is harsher than Pinochet himself
|
| I know why we spent so many days and nights here
|
| For the moment to hit the enemy right in the skull
|
| Che's time is soon, now is the calm before the storm
|
| We rejoice at the parcels, we sit like mice, we smoke |
| Hamil:
|
| Tourniquets, ointments and bandages were found in the new package.
|
| Our recruits will live
|
| And for me - what is more important than any plaster -
|
| Blank paper and seven simple felt-tip pens
|
| I draw my home every day
|
| And the fighters are sad, they look with their mouths open
|
| I save every color like a cartridge,
|
| And when they run out of alcohol, I will pour rum into them
|
| There's nothing but boredom in this hole, brother
|
| you need something to do with your hands, I'm a local Rembrandt here
|
| My drawings hang in the jungle wherever you step
|
| Our squad rejoices, enemies are angry,
|
| And if my blood suddenly becomes the eighth color
|
| Maybe I won't live to see next winter
|
| Let our executioners remember later
|
| Home is where freedom is, freedom is where home is
|
| Now the thunder of shells, then the sound of castanets
|
| And only the weak, friend, there is no place here
|
| "Viva la revolucion" - guitar sings
|
| Viva comandante Che Guevara
|
| Noggano:
|
| Fragments in meat, crushed bones
|
| Companeras, you'd better leave me here
|
| Come on, we'll take you to the hospital and after
|
| We will visit with senoritas
|
| Eh, war, cannon balls, nuclear cigarettes |
| Ernest, what kind of hospital is here, this is an island
|
| Calm down, your salvation for us is a matter of spirituality,
|
| And the fact that there is no hospital, so it will be built
|
| That's what he said, bitch, in our
|
| It doesn't matter where and where to fuck, the main thing is to fuck
|
| It doesn't matter where to die, if only not from old age
|
| I say: there is a village, where the reed is earing
|
| Four huts, in the center there is an old man by the fire.
|
| We have a wounded man here, padre. |
| Do you have bandages?
|
| There are no bandages, let's better raise
|
| I, they say, what kind of smoke, father? |
| Have a shame
|
| I see the heroic mood in muchachs has cooled down
|
| You don't care about amputation and crutches,
|
| And in the worst case, we would not have informed you anyway
|
| So Vasily, not Ramsey. |
| Got it?
|
| Meanwhile, grandpa from the gun barrel
|
| Made a badass bulbik
|
| I thought so: if you die, then not from a bullet
|
| Well, Ernest, Fidel, Dunem? |
| grandpa blowing
|
| After the fifth round, people poured out of the huts
|
| For acquaintance circle, guitar in hand
|
| From somewhere, shrouded in smoke, a voodoo shaman fell out
|
| Like, everything will be good, I will treat a friend
|
| That's just a dunu
|
| the shaman blew and immediately gave the oak
|
| Fidel, Ernest, cheer up the muddy one, let him conjure, |