Existence is in ruins.
For years, they've been building and building Poland, and it seems to be crumbling,
because countless homeless people are there, and the unemployed are eager to act,
and the party shouted to unite and grow stronger,
but here we have nothing but hunger and wickedness, growing into the syphilis of populism.
The homely countryside has naturally gone to shit, and the cities are bursting at the seams.
There are plenty of workers, little work, and the town is growing into a jungle.
But those who earn extra money in the countryside don't starve.
When they can't keep up with the fixed costs, they flee to the storm,
while the inveterate city dweller is faced with sewers and train stations,
and entire families struggling to make ends meet are evicted.
On the outskirts of cities, by the roads, stand foreign-speaking prostitutes,
and under the city lampposts, native whores, the consequences of hedonistic life.
Every man is cruelly turned on by what a woman wears in her panties,
so that ass, like a workshop, is bustling left and right.
In a free workplace, there has always been and is a vision of achievement.
You don't know how to do it, instructions are provided by public television.
You breed like a rabbit, sitting in poverty up to your ears,
you can't steal, beg—relax—forget about shame.
Oh! Another child is being forced into your world without any desire for control,
into the trash can, at the door I'll find, into the oven. After all, you're not in pain.
This is what still happens when someone, in sincerity of heart, doesn't ask God for directions,
and, confused by the mirages of illusory happiness, we dance in the dance of St. Vitus.
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