Strike the satans with a knife in a ring
Sprawl you scoundrels
With a sexton's birch whisk you'll turn into a ball sack
Lighting steel makes you dance
One dances with his feet a showy scoundrel's polka
Satans' whisk away with a knife [in their hand]
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
The inner hear is filled with hatered
One will not run out of money, the ugliness won't stick
Into the imprints are forged into one's neck veins
Breasts made of solid iron
Boy of the North made of rye
Back hairs made of smits' steel
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Poem a scoundrel poem
(With Kouvola I moisten my body)
Poem, a sick poem
(With Kouvola I persuade my inner strength)
Poem a scoundrel poem
(With Kouvola I moisten my body)
Poem, a sick poem
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Kill the heart of my loved one with a heartache
Kill the heart with a heartache
Poem a scoundrel poem
Copyright © Peter Lehtinen
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