Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

Vladimir Vysotsky

Translated by Nellie Tkach





IT'S THE SAME THING AFTER 10 YEARS
IN THE FAR-AWAY GALAXY OF TAU-WHALE
I DON'T LIKE
Open doors...
SONG ABOUT A FRIEND
TIN SOLDIERS
A SONG ABOUT NOTHING, OR WHAT HAPPENED IN AFRICA
THE TIGHTROPE-WALKER
A BALLAD ABOUT THE STRUGGLE
A HUNT ON WOLVES
FASTIDIOUS HORSES
SAVE OUR SOULS
THE HORIZON
MY GYPSY SONG







IT'S THE SAME THING AFTER 10 YEARS



Pray tell me, how can I not be afraid of flying
When my dear boss, I.B.Izotov,
Aiming to sympathize, pricks like a needle.
«Oh, you poor guy,» -- he says
«Even them, in Chicago,
Had a catastrophe three days ago.»
Should have spat: we are all brothers, right?
And there are two us, and not on the safe side, either.
But the devil knows I am all for ventures
Readily off -- anyhow, anywhere and on anything.

No, I am not afraid, a bit tipsy, that is.
And, so I would walk steadily on the ladder,
I train myself while still on earth
Having tightened my belt properly.

But, thank God, I am not flying off --
Beguiling the time in the airport
Together with a lad, a blood brother.
We drink the seventh glass this day
For the thought that all of us will land
And hopefully where we intended to.
So what if there is no carry-out in the restaurant
The radio is silent there -- it's a heaven.
A concierge will run in and roar: «Who goes to Vilnius?..
It's O.K., continue drinking!»

Flying for me is like sharp knife, a noose
Can't eat, can't drink, can't smoke.
Plus, for further safety of mine
I ought to buckle myself up nicely.

Near the automated teller-it has a heck of a mind!
I stand, smiling dumbly:
The teller has answered me in such terms!
Unbelievably: here in Yeisk
Almost in European style:
Exists a freedom of speech -- if it's profanity.

My smart friend started to climb the walls at noon --
They are calling in the SWAT team
He bent the screws of IL-18
And demanded a parachute on the spot.

I tried to reason with the chap:
Pasha, Pashenka, Pasha, Pashut!
If we a drink a bit more
What good would the chute be, for Pete's sake?

He explained -- his kind don't lie
He flew one time, not buckled up
Suddenly -- explosion! But he was ready:
Found a loophole even here --
Spread his padded jacket
And landed in a flower-bed.

We were flabbergasted!
Here all is postponed, and not in vain --
All flights for the last couple weeks
For tomorrow -- the thirty third of December.

I am going out of mind for nothing
I am stressing out for nothing, in general.
If something extraordinary happens in the air
I will just land on my Chinese raincoat!

But feeling rather troubled
I remembered coming here without one, --
Oh, Kate! This blow of yours was such a pain...
Two neighbors did thrust in the bags with all the food
But the bags surely will let in air...

Was it my flight they called? I wouldn't have stood up --
Now you can't lift me.
I hear: «Passengers for November!
Your flight is put off until May!»

I am twitching for nothing: Yeisk isn't Beirut
The passengers here are as calm as the lambs,
They don't take terrorists on flights
And all the defects will be gone by the spring.

Call me what you will
But I would fly by Aeroflot even there:
There it's a quick good-bye and to the sky
Whether you want it or not..
But here -- sit and sun yourself
For there is always a delay --
You will be spared at least a day...

We ordered punch and turkey skin -- urgh!
Now we scurry in the dark for the bathroom.
The accommodations are outside, despite December
And the New Year flies by on TU.

My friend drunkenly swears by his honor
That he will remove all and everyone, if needed
«How is it,» -- he says -- «that the whole country
Never flies anywhere?!»

At that very moment somewhere in Krasnoyarsk
Sprawled prettily on a tiled floor
Not at all grieving about the delay
Spends his third day
With champagne in the bathroom
The very New Year and drinks to himself!

Stirring in his glass with a smoked herring --
So the gas would come out -- he vomits from gas
He sits merrily in the airport building
And waits for a new year to come.

But the flight in Khabarovsk is canceled --
There, a plane is reliably stuck --
That's why no new times
Come to our city..

1979





IN THE FAR-AWAY GALAXY OF TAU-WHALE



In the far-away galaxy of Tau-Whale
Something freaky has been going on.
We send them a signal: What are you, nuts?
And they...They send us somewhere else...

On that Tau-Whale
Live in crowded quarters
And do it rather smoothly
Our fellow beings of high intellect.

And so, moving along the light ray
Not with the help of it, but by its means,
I fly to this Tau-Whale
To sort her out on the spot.

On that Tau-Whale
Things are deeply wrong --
The bloody fraternity of Tau-Whales
Has gone mad -- in our view, of course.

While I lie in anabiosis --
Those Tau-Whales riot and rant
I don't even talk to them anymore
Cause they get to be so rowdy....

Those Tau-Whales
Have few words in their alphabet.
They live in a bourgeois society
And their humor is awful, too.

I landed the ship like my own rear end,
Bending the reflector slightly.
I shouted in their lingo -- «Viva!»
Which translates to a «Hello» in ours.

Those Tau-Whales'
Appearance is a bluff.
Can't outscore them here.
They dissolve and reappear
(And make my head spin, too!)

A Tau-Whale to me is like a Neanderthal to you
I was given enough hints, you know..
«You embarrass the whole Universe,» -- I blew!
They blinked something at me, for an answer..

On this Tau-Whale
Living conditions are nothing like ours
There is no atmosphere, it's stifling
But the Tau-Whales are hearty people...

Fusing, I shouted: to hell with you all!
But my cybernetic guide
Translated the words so literally
That I became a bit embarrassed.

But these Tau-Whales
Those dirty bastards
Had more than a good drink, I think..
They keep dissapearing and then reappearing
(My poor head, it's spinning and spinning...)

«Yo, my brothers,» -- I yell, -- «the stronger sex,
What's up with the...»
But here my voice trailed
I seized a Tau-Whale by her delicate waist,
«Come on,» -- I say strictly, «Confess or else...»

But she goes: Buzz off..
We are, like, in front ranks,
And will have nothing to do with men --
For from now on we will get by with budding!

I really don't remember the take-off,
And I fly, feeling lousy and in need of a drink --
The Earth was supposed to go ahead three centuries
According to that blasted theory of Einstein's!
What if there,
Like on Tau-Whale
The knowledge has horribly risen.
What if it's the budding season there, also?!!





I DON'T LIKE



I don't like fatal outcomes
Never get tired of life
I don't like any time of the year
When I get ill or drunk.

I don't like straight-forwarded cynicism
Don't believe in exaltation, and also
When a stranger reads my letters
Glancing over my shoulder.

I don't like it when there is no other half,
Or when a conversation is interrupted.
I don't like it when they shoot in the back
I am also against shooting point-blank.

I hate rumors that pose as versions
The worms of doubt, the needle of honours
Or when it's all against the wind
Or when it's with iron against the window.

I don't like confidence built on satiety
I opt for failed brakes, in this case.
I am disappointed when the word «honor» is forgotten
And it's accepted to slander someone behind their back.

When I see broken wings,
I have no pity, and this isn't without a reason.
I don't like violence and weakness
Although I feel sorry for the crucified Christ.

I don't like myself when I fear,
It angers me when the innocent suffer.
I don't like it when someone worms into my soul
All the more when they spit into it.

I don't like maneges and arenas
There, a million is exchanged by rubles.
There might be big changes ahead,
But I will never like this!





* * *



Open doors
Of hospitals, police stations.
The string is stretched out to the limit.
French demons
Are such morons
But they still can carouse....

I had surely left my mark somewhere
The outcomes are predictable.
Today a demon walked me
Through the city of Paris.

«Do drink a glass,» -- he whined
«Come on, listen to the guitar!»
He dragged us to the Russian bars
With Hungarians and Bulgarians.

I longed for nature, escaping to the forest
Plunging into grass and water
But this was a French demon
He didn't like landscapes.

We behaved as if we fled from prison, --
Take us anywhere --
We fell drunk and grew sober
Always by turns.
And the demon led us, and we sung,
And cried without restraint.

My friend-genius of all times,
A folly and a rogue,
Saddled the lame demon.
When he regained his senses.
Growing sober, he stood in a shower,
Doing away with the fatigue, --
And the demon didn't succeed --
He couldn't break our Russian souls.
But what my friend had managed to do --
Came from God, not from the demon --
He was of coarse grinding
And rough mold.
You couldn't pierce him through
With nothing sharp or heavy
And that's when he is fenced in completely
With hostile paling.

Our drunk minds considered drinking
Our true calling.
Oh, the things we said
To the guilty and the innocent!
The string tore and dashed for it --
Save our backs!
The hospitals shed tears for us,
And so did the prefectures...
We hurled ourselves into demon's bondage,
With grenades -- under tanks --
The tears glistened on the floor
And franks grew dim in them.
The Gypsies sung about a shawl
And rocked the fiddles --
Poured melancholy and sorrow into us --
We are up to our necks in sadness.

The moisture streamed down our ears --
All rubbish, feebler than rubbish, --
But again and again the fiddles
Shoved the sleaze back into our souls.
Somewhere we fed caviar
To Armenians in bracelets and earrings,
And that friend of mine in black boots --
Fired a pistol.
The veins hung down and clots
Unfolded in blood, --
And the demon, sitting vis-à-vis
Giggled in French.
Vanity -- that's what all in this life is
Damn the prefectures!
My friend signed checks
And gave away banknotes.

Wide open doors
Of hospitals, police stations.
The string is stretched out to the limit.
French demons
Are such morons.
But they still can carouse...





SONG ABOUT A FRIEND



If a friend
suddenly became
Not a friend and not a foe,
but just a so-and-so.
If you can't really tell
What kind of a guy he is, --
Take the fellow to the mountains
risk it!
Don't leave him
alone:
Let him be in the same bind
you are
You will see who he is.

If the fellow is not --
an ace,
If he went wimpy and down
at once,
Stepped on the ice --
and cracked,
Slipped and made a scene of it --

Then -- that is a stranger
beside you,
Don't curse him --
let him go:
Nobody takes losers to the top --
and here,
Nobody sings about them.

If he didn't let out a whimper,
didn't whine,
Was sullen and angry,
but walked anyway,
And when you fell
from the cliff,
He moaned --
yet held.
If he marched ahead with you,
as if into a battle --
Stood at the top,
drunk with joy,
Then, as on your own self,
Rely on him.





TIN SOLDIERS



Still, there will be poems and math,
Honors, debts, an uneven fight --
But for now, tin soldiers
Here, on the old map, stand in order.

It would be better if he kept them in barracks,
But war is war --
The soldiers fall in both armies
Equally on each side.

Sure, there are gaps in upbringing
A weak schooling, maybe --
But neither side
Can win the campaign.

Those devilish pangs of conscience --
How can you evade sinning to yourself?
Tin soldiers, both here and there, --
How do you decide who should win?

What was that about a strategy, devil take it,
And what tactics, may they burn in hell!
Here you go, a neutral Norway surrendered
To the hordes of tin Egyptians.

Skandinavia's prestige
Was taken away by the left hand, --
But a determined right hand
Recovered the status quo at once.

Where are you, light-minded geniuses,
Or have you no time to come?
Where are you, who lost their battles,
Like it was nothing, without suffering?

Or you, carrying the dawn in your crown
Of battles, wins, triumphs and graves, --
Where are you, who became like Caesar
That came, saw, conquered?

The little general is worried,
Burdened by the unbearable load
He, who became the top guy,
My six-year old Napoleon.

To put an end to his troubles,
Exactly half of those soldiers --
I painted blue-the stroke of a genius --
In the morning the blue ones lay.

I am proud of such success, but
A thought disturbs me now and then:
How did he decide that the blue should die,
And not vice versa?





A SONG ABOUT NOTHING, OR WHAT HAPPENED IN AFRICA



In the yellow and hot Africa,
In its very central part,
A disaster managed to take place
Outside of approved schedule.

The Elephant, not making anything of it,
Hinted that a flood was sure to come.
Here it is: a giraffe
Fell in love with an antelope.

Such a hubbub and barking arose
And only the old Parrot
Yelled loudly from the branches:
«The giraffe is big, he knows best!»

«So what if she's got horns?»
Cried the giraffe lovingly.
«Nowadays in our fauna
Everyone is politically correct.
And if my folks and kin
Don't make it good for her --
Just try blaming it on me, you hear? --
I will leave the herd.»

Such a hubbub and barking arose
And only the old Parrot
Yelled loudly from the branches:
«The giraffe is big, he knows best!»

Father of the antelope --
Why would he want such a son?
And giraffe's son-in-law grumbles --
«He is a moron, I'll tell you, a moron!»
So the antelope and giraffe
Went to live with bison.

Such a hubbub and barking arose
And only the old Parrot
Yelled loudly from the branches:
«The giraffe is big, he knows best!»

In the yellow and hot Africa,
The idyll has seen it's last days.
The giraffe and his wife
Are shedding crocodile tears, --
But nothing can help their trouble --
Now, there is no law, whatsoever:
Giraffe's daughter
Married a bison!

Sure, maybe the giraffe wasn't right, --
But there is no way he was guilty --
Guilty was the one, who yelled from the branches:
«Giraffe is big, he knows best!»





THE TIGHTROPE-WALKER



He didn't turn out so well, --
Had no titles, was no giant, either,
Not for fame or pay,
In his own, strange manner,
He walked above the platform through life --
On a tightrope, on a tightrope,
Strained, like a nerve.

Look at him -- he
walks without support.
A tilt to the right --
he will fall, he will perish!
A tilt to the left --
still, nothing can save him...
But it seems that he really needs to
walk all four quarters of the way.

And the rays knocked his step down,
And stabbed, like laurels.
The trumpet went out of it's way --
As if there were two of them
The shouts «Bravo» deafened him,
And the kettledrums, the kettledrums --
Oh, did they ever thunder!

Look at him -- he
walks without support.
A tilt to the right --
he will fall, he will perish!
A tilt to the left --
still, nothing can save him...
But now there is less to walk --
three quarters of the way.

«Oh, how awful, how brave, how darling!
Battle with the death -- in three minutes!» --
Their mouths agape in anticipation,
Looked down from the parterre somberly --
Lilliputians, Lilliputians --
They seemed to him from the top.

Look at him -- he
walks without support.
A tilt to the right --
he will fall, he will perish!
A tilt to the left --
still, nothing can save him...
But stay calm, all he has left
are two quarters of the way.

He laughed at the fleeting fame,
But wanted to be the first --
Dare to wreck someone like that!
Not on the wire above the arena --
On the nerves -- on our nerves --
He walked under the drum beat!

Look at him -- he
walks without support.
A tilt to the right --
he will fall, he will perish!
A tilt to the left --
still, nothing can save him...
But stand still, -- all he has left
is no more than a quarter of the way.

The animal trainer cried out and the animals --
Laid their paws on the stretcher...
But the verdict is simple and strict:
No matter if he was lost or confident --
But into the sawdust, into the sawdust
He spilled his anger and blood!

And today another one
walks without support.
A thin cord under foot
he will fall, he will perish!
A tilt to the right, to the left --
and nothing can save him...
But for some reason he also needs to walk
All four quarters of the way!

1972





A BALLAD ABOUT THE STRUGGLE



Among the melting candles and evening prayer,
Among the trophies of war and the peace time bonfires,
Lived the bookish children, not knowing battle,
Pining away in their small catastrophes.

To children, age and life are eternally vexing
And we fought until scratched, to death insults,
But our mothers patched our garments in time,
While we devoured books, drunk from the lines.

Those locks of ours stuck to the sweaty foreheads,
Phrases filled the pits of our bellies with sweet heaving,
And the scent of struggle turned our heads,
Flowing down from the yellowed pages.

And we, not knowing war, tried to grasp,
Mistaking a wail for the war cry, --
The mystery of the word «order»,
The purpose of borders,
The meaning of assault and rattle of war chariots.

In the bubbling kettles of gone pillages and turbulences,
There is so much nurture for our little minds!
In our childish games we placed our enemies
In roles of renegades, cowards, judases.

We didn't rest until the evil ceased,
We swore our love to the fair dames,
And reassuring our friends
And loving our fellow men
We led ourselves into the hero roles.

But you can't hide away in dreams until the end of time,
The play's day is short, for there is so much pain around!
Try to soften the clench of the palms of the dead,
And take over the weapon from the toil-worn hands.

See, seizing
a still warm sword,
And clothed in armor --
What is what, what is what!

Find out who are you --
A coward,
Or the minion of fortune,
And taste the real battle.

And when a wounded friend will fall before you,
And you will scream in grief over your first loss,
And when you will be left at your wit's end
Because not you, but he was killed, --
You will see what you've learned,
Recognized, found out
By the grin of the guise --
That's the death barred grin!

Lie and evil -- look at them --
How crude are their faces,
And always left behind
Are carrion crows and coffins!

If hewing your way through with father's sword
You didn't forget the salty tears,
If in a fiery battle you felt the how and why of things,
Then you read the right books!

If you didn't eat a measly piece of meat from the knife,
If, your hands folded, you watched from your own spot
And didn't battle a scoundrel, a tyrant,
Then you were in life for no reason at all!





A HUNT ON WOLVES



I strain myself out of all my might and sinew,
But today, just like yesterday,
I am close rounded.
They've cornered me, for God's sake!
They are keeping after, joyfully driving me at all speeds!

The rifles behind the fir-trees are keeping themselves busy --
There, the hunters hide in the shadows --
The wolves are frolicking on the snow,
Turned into a live target.

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until they're retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.

It's not a fair game they are playing,
But no hand trembles, --
Our freedom blocked by flags,
They strike safely, for sure!

A wolf can't fail his customs, --
Long time ago-blind puppies,
We, little ones, sucked our mother,
And sucked in: don't go outside of flags!

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until they're retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.

Our feet and jaws are swift,
Tell us, our leader, -- why do we then
Rush onward, into the shots,
And not through the restraint?!

A wolf can not, must not do otherwise.
Now my time has ended:
The one I am intended for,
Smiled and raised his rifle.

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until they're retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.

I came out of the obedience trance --
Beyond the flags -- my thirst for life is stronger,
Behind me I heard triumphantly
Their bewildered cries.

I strain myself out of all my might and sinew,
But today, not like yesterday,
I was close rounded.
They've cornered me, for God's sake!
But the hunters were left with nothing!

The hunt is on! The hunt on wolves,
On gray beasts, full-grown and puppies!
The beaters shout and the hounds bark until they're retching,
There is blood on snow and red spots of flags.





FASTIDIOUS HORSES



Along the ledge of the abyss, on the very edge of it,
I lash my horses out, urging them on...
Running out of air, I drink the wind, I swallow the fog,
I feel with a damned extasy that I am done for, done for!

Slow down a bit, my horses, slow down!
Don't listen to the tight whip!
But I got some fastidious horses --
I didn't finish living, now my song will be cut short.

I will let my horses drink,
I will finish my verse --
For a moment, at least, I will stand
on the edge....

When I am gone -- the hurricane will sweep me, a snowflake off the palm,
And horses will pull my sleigh at full speed on the snow that morning,
Pace yourselves, my horses,
Lengthen the way to my last shelter, even for a little bit!

Slow down, my horses, slow down!
The whip is not your overseer!
But I got some fastidious horses --
I didn't finish living, now my song will be cut short.

I will let my horses drink,
I will finish my verse --
For a moment, at least, I will stand
on the edge....

We've come in time: there is no such thing as being late for God, --
Why do then those angels sing so viciously?
Or is it a bluebell that grew numb from sobbing?
Or is it me, crying for the horses not to carry the sleigh so fast?!

Slow down a bit, my horses, slow down!
I beg you, do not tear away at such mad pace!
But I got some fastidious horses --
I didn't live enough, at least I should finish my song!

I will let my horses drink,
I will finish my verse --
For a moment, at least, I will stand
on the edge....

1972





SAVE OUR SOULS



Going underwater
in neutral waters.
For a year we can
not give a damn about the weather,
And if someone corners us,
The locators will scream
about our blunder.

Save our souls!
We are delirious from suffocation.
Save our souls!
Hurry to us!
Hear us on the land!
Our SOS is getting
fainter, yet fainter..
And fear slices our souls
In two.

And our aortas tear,
But don't you dare go up!
There, left of the board,
There, right of the board,
There, straight on the run --
Stands in the way
The horned death!

But its here we're at our freest!
This is our world, after all!
What are we, crazy, --
To surface in a minefield!
«Cut the hysteria!
We'll plummet into the shore,»
Said the captain.

Save our souls!
We are delirious from suffocation.
Save our souls!
Hurry to us!
Hear us on the land!
Our SOS is getting
fainter, yet fainter..
And fear slices our souls
In two.

We'll come up at dawn.
Order is always an order!
If we are destined to die in our prime --
Then be it in light!
Our way isn't feated
We didn't do much...
We didn't have much!
But do remember us!

Save our souls!
We are delirious from suffocation.
Save our souls!
Hurry to us!
Hear us on the land!
Our SOS is getting
fainter, yet fainter..
And fear slices our souls
In two.

So we came up.
But there is no exit here!
Here goes a full speed to the docks,
Our strained nerves.
It's the end to all sorrows,
Ends and beginnings --
We strive for the moorings
Instead of the torpedos!

Save our souls!
We are delirious from suffocation.
Save our souls!
Hurry to us!
Hear us on the land!
Our SOS is getting
fainter, yet fainter..
And fear slices our souls
In two.

Save our souls!
Save our..
Save..





THE HORIZON



They've swept everywhere, so there would be no tracks..
Go ahead, curse me, shame me, spread the news:
My finish is the horizon and the finish line -- the edge of the world, --
I need to be the first one there!

The bet was not okayed by some,
And hands were shaken hesitantly,
Here are the terms: to ride on the highway and only on it --
No turns allowed.

I am winding the miles on the meter,
Riding parallel to the telephone wires,
But these shadows continue to appear --
Now a black cat, now someone in black.

They put spokes in my wheels more than once, and I know it,
I can guess how and when they will cheat me,
I know where they will stop my run
And where they will run a cable through my way.

But I drown the meter pointers -- at this speed
A grain has the power of a bullet, --
And I clench the wheel until my hands feel the cramps --
I need to arrive before they tighten in the bolts!

I am winding the miles on the meter,
Riding vertical to the telephone wires,
They're screwing in the nuts, -- got to jet!
Or they will raise the cable up to my neck.

And the asphalt is melting, and the protectors are seething,
There is a heaving in the pit of my stomach from the nearness of the end,
I tear the rope with my bare chest, --
I am alive -- take off your black ribbons!

The one who forced me to take this bet
Plays dirty when it comes to the payoff.
I am drank with excitement, but nevertheless,
I brake on the steep turns.

I am winding the miles on the meter,
Damn the ropes, the wires, the cables!
Just try to reason with the losers --
When I appear on the horizon!

My finish -- horizon is as far as before,
I didn't tear the finish line, but I got rid of the cable, --
No rope crossed my jugular vertebrae,
But they are aiming for my wheels from the bushes.

I am not in this race for money, you know --
They've asked me -- «Don't lose this moment --
See if there is limit there, on the edge of the world,
And can one draw apart the horizons?»

I am winding the miles on the meter,
And wouldn't let a bullet hit my roof,
But my brakes fail -- coda!
I lose the horizon in my run!....





MY GYPSY SONG



Into my dream creep yellow lights,
And I shout myself hoarse in my sleep:
«Wait a bit, wait a bit --
It'll get better in the morning.»
But in the morning nothing is right,
It's no fun anymore:
You either smoke on empty stomach,
Or drink from a hangover.

In the drinking-house there is a familiar sight
Of a green shot, white napkins, --
It's a heaven for beggars and buffoons,
I feel like a caged bird in it.
The church dissolves in stench and darkness ,
The deacons are smoking the incense...
No, nothing is right in here, either,
Nothing is the way it's supposed to be!

I hurry off onto the hill,
So nothing would come before me, --
There grows an alder on the hill
And under the hill -- a cherry tree.
If only the ivy twined the slope, --
It would bring me a slight consolation,
If there only was something else...
But no, nothing is the way it should be!

I go off onto the field, along the river.
Tons of light, no God.
Corn-flowers in the clear field
And a road leading far away.
Along the road -- a deep forest
With evil witches.
And at the end of that road --
A guillotine and axes.

Somewhere horses are dancing to the beat,
Half-heartedly and smoothly..
Nothing is right along the road,
And it's no better at the end of it.
And not the church or the drinking-house --
Nothing is holy!
No, folks, nothing is right!
Nothing is right, folks....

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