I live in a home like a kidney in lard
I have my own biorhythm, it's not too fast
I sleep until I get up, I stop by the canteen
Where the cooks give me kris shots
Only when the old people come over I'm a bit in a frenzy
I throw away beer cans and dust from books
And with a pain in my face I stare at the script
Until they bring me money, collect everything and leave
As for politics, I publicly renounce it
Because I'm too happy to write in the wind
I'm working on a local plan for accommodation and food
The future elite must not have a record
Everything is the same as before from hot dogs to beer
From birth until Cmrok the same round of new coke