He was born in a wheat field
A great way to start
Weevils of the hungry
And a toothpick to harvest
Weevils ons of the hungry
It's ingancius in summary
That's what he hoped for, what modesty
It was to be able live in the shelter
That's the boredom there's no more room
Still fighting the fight of the filth
That's the boredom there there's no more room
Make a hole, in these ravenous ones
Little little
The shrunken coal
The work dissolves
In spite of you
But the wheat no longer grows of course
And for Ignace what is the menu
For white bread eet la traban
Grill tires no feelings
For the broke the hungry
Just black bread and nothing in it
Hand without method at twelve thousand
br/>Is finding your place very useful
For ingancius you doubted it
It's the cacti that he grows
The history of men resolutely
br/>Doesn't get better with time
canno

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