My uncle wanted to walk to Berlin,
to personally grab Adolf by the ears,
and when he reached somewhere in Vienna,
ve? the Americans and the Russians overtook him.
That winter it was hot in Berlin,
B-52 was written in the sky
and big bouquets of red-hot iron
were falling on the roofs
like grapes made of grapes.
To Berlin,
I didn't think of Berlin,
I thought of Berlin
with Berliners.