Little birch so lonely was standing
In the field a curly one was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
No one can cut up birch's branches,
No one can cut up its curly branches
Lonely, lonely was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
I'll go into forest for a walk,
I'll cut up branches from the stalk.
Only three from the stalk
Only three from the stalk
I will make from them three whistles,
And go home through blooming fucking thistles
And go home with the music of my whistles
And go home with the music of my whistles
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