| Morning colors with nervous light
|
| Walls of the ancient Kremlin
|
| Wakes up at dawn
|
| All Soviet land.
|
| There is an old woman feeding a heifer,
|
| The plane was hijacked
|
| A cone fell off the tree,
|
| Vaughn blew up a chemical plant.
|
| The sun languishes in the blue sky,
|
| Infects the clouds
|
| A cry is heard: "Save Russia",
|
| from the forester's hut.
|
| The forester is sleeping - a red-haired kid,
|
| Sees a dream, the country screams:
|
| Who has it easier - a hernia,
|
| The owners have meningitis.
|
| Dreaming that everyone is freaks,
|
| No life for a year
|
| And the chosen ones of the people
|
| They shit on their own people.
|
| All scientists, contagions,
|
| And only sense that from them,
|
| In colorful toilet bowls
|
| They catch gold fish.
|
| Now decrees, then cancellations,
|
| Either do not think, then do not drink,
|
| And eat a pack of purgen,
|
| life will be more fun.
|
| And in the cemetery - oh, it's bad,
|
| And the cemetery is a mess,
|
| What is not marble, then foul,
|
| What is not bronze is a fool.
|
| The forester got up from blue fear,
|
| Bah, yes, I live here,
|
| And shouts: "Save Russia",
|
| Not in a dream, but in reality.
|
| It shouldn't go on like this
|
| There's only one thing left
|
| All Russia rise,
|
| So that the glass from it is shit.
|
| And all the enemies with one blow
|
| We will finish, but for now
|
| You sing, ring, my guitar,
|
| Fool's balalaika. |