Sunday morning, knock on the door, yes, I'm in Drabadan,
peep into the peephole - silhouettes, brother after brother there.
they strike with broken crickets, I won't let the guys disappear.
I open I distribute the fire rata tata ta.
joking, we sit talking,
smoke to the ceiling
whitefish battle smoke while
the bongo nozzle burns like the sun in the congo -
I gave fire to mine, reminded me
im e king ov bongo.
carpet under the feet, rainbow arc in the window,
under the positive ask glad? Yes Yes!
get out who wanted to fight, but fuck it,
if you sing this stew for you with me.
and mom is war - come on,
we fire on our own, but it's a secret.
sing along to us, mom, sing along, ori na-na-na,
I can't think in puffs of smoke,
Jamaica beckons.
I open fire on mine, fire!
setting fire to bong looking for a way to my zion
eternal struggle of a beaver with a donkey:
whoever put up with
hero or knight,
every century well, as evil
another obelisk, the heroes in Russia were extinct.
stems and steppes and swamps,
extreme degrees of frost, north and wind roses remember where it takes birch
trunk start - from the dust
warriors, it's enough to die,
we need a different fire
there is no smell of napalm, and I am singing to the burning palms right now with a prayer.
conscripts against bearded men
all life a couple of nights
Whose mess is this?
know - they would drive.
Rastafarai do not be ill,
and I went to drink under the horse's lube.
