What is the Press that let men lie,
That make them warm the ground,
Without caring of their lives
And saying: ‘we’re united, bound
With ties that’ll no one break’,
That these ones made of iron,
When all He does is only say
That He will feed the open mouth…
Of His own, He doesn’t say,
He doesn’t mention this,
And only bank accounts may
Be full: His bank accounts,
But who will take the poor
That warm the ground under Him?
He will, by being generous, but cruel
By saying it’s OK to feed the system,
In charge of which he is,
And that moustache he wears
Are neatly cut with scissors,
As people, lying in His Minsk on stairs.