And there in a gloomy land,
the evil province,
A brave man was fated to have
thorns and sloes.
There he had scooped the insults
with a full hand,
There he had passed through grief,
the bitter case.
Drink a poison, pour it out of your cup!
No one will seek for payment, all the cord,
Being twisting before you, at one time
Will be plaited into one whip long.
Whip is driving all the losers
through the world
Only with small bag;
life is dripping as
A thin web though the fingers,
and some boys
Were unhappy to be put
to prison dwell
By the valiant road, where they
Ought to clench their teeth to bare,
To sustain the cord, whichís twisting bad,
Plaiting in the hard-whip state.
Hey, the valiant land,
I raced you much,
But have seen the only "red place",
and slim cord...
To all "hanged" ones devil
licks their heels such,
That you laugh, you feel vexed,
And you couldnít live well, or to go through!
Donít mourn, donít cry, but laugh!
Anyway the cord, whichís twisting longly,
Will be cut up at some place one lime!
Night brings thoughts, which are the worser variant.
Carpenters are ready. Hardly you
Will prepare yourself for the morning prayer,
All the way - the hang too early, too...
Letís see your cord -
no any knot.
Lay down and warm
yourself a little!
You shanít miss your execution,
Surely in great loop
is now twisting...