In the villages - complete lechaim,
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towels are full of roosters,
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good fellows smear black prokhore with wax,
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and Princess Red in sorrow -
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she has a war behind her
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Yes, seventeen walkers in the gray haze of January.
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It's not sweet for her, oh it's not sweet,
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she has a patch on her dress,
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enemies at the borders, with a sowing problem, the treasury is empty,
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her vassals are cheerful -
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stunners, conquistabols,
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a hundred rubles loss from each redhead, like from a bush.
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And the princess, throwing ultimatums into the fireplace flame,
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in an urgent meeting announces a break for half an hour,
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calls the red-haired rooster to contact the eagles,
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hear, eagles, return to our blue skies.
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Every day is more disturbing than the night -
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evil clowns sharpen their razors,
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the crusaders put on their black hoods,
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Red Guards came out of a coma
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and ferocious house managers
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crossed the border and camped by the river.
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The princess calls the ginger cat, as it happened more than once,
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sends to the leopards, the cat goes without waiting for the morning,
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snow leopards, blue-eyed guardians of ice passes,
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rescue us, leopards, return to our blue tents.
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If anyone is skiing in the summer -
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this one, it means, exactly from the redheads,
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everything is not thank God, any business is spit out,
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but for now the governor is lucky,
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snow leopards come up from the passes
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and eagle patrols are circling over Bald Mountain.
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The princess goes around the army on the eve of dawn,
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the main thing is maneuver, he says, everything else is nonsense,
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everything is already in openwork, and besides, summer begins -
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bright and affectionate time of the red rooster.
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She has a Victoria today -
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crusaders captives whimper,
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evil clowns are taken in pincers and caught under the bridge,
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and run, losing clubs,
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shocked hungweibings,
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and a scratched building manager is hiding in a ravine.
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Got a little luck
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children of the freckled god,
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and from a high tree a song heard a mile away,
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sings a fiery kochet,
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naughty girls laugh
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Yes, under Bald Mountain a fern is in bloom.
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You drive, princess, the sorrows that crowd under the door,
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enough of our sadness, we already had enough,
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sing, my summer, dawn, puff up red feathers,
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silk beard, butter head ... |