| 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. |