My comrade P. is slightly outraged The knife is honed and spilled with blood I dance with fairy-mushrooms on the stage My wooden horses lined-up at the start
And flies together with black crowsΒ Float through the heavens getting nuts I feel like hundred-year corpse I feed meat-hasher with my guts
My ******* fatherland in red Is getting mossy day by day I look at it from high above my head While comrade P. is turning into clay