4. sunday

Sunday



Here are again the stupid bloated maggots

The fucking bourgeois going to mass

Ach, the repugnant processionary worms

In an orgy of a stagnant mess

All ears and farts then for the words spewed

By a fucking preacher - ignorant creep

Praising all wars as the bible said

For they shall bring tangible benefits

And the farts will then continue flowing





In Merkin all is for sale - wars are invented

And sold cheap, and what's reaped is weighed

Then, accordingly to what was gained, asssessed good enough

Or just another failure - though never fear

A new war is on the offing, my faithful

Farting maggots, forsooth




Peoples of the bumpf

Maggots of the three rolls of bumpf

The coran, the bible, that thing the jews read

Bourgeois to the masses

Masses of messes

Orgies of worms

All their ludicrous preposterous

Laughable hope lies in lies

Lies in lies

Lilies for the corpses

Turds on your heads

Maggots, begone




I am a man, not a worshipper

I shit on all their gods

I shit on all gods




Brave must the man be

Who braves the unknown, you creeping

Orgiastic worms on whom I tread

Obliquely, dismissingly, smiling




Who cares for wars - who cares for

The maggots' orgies

Who cares for the paradises promised

To those that kill the most

Who cares for idols bloodthirsty

Who cares for the bloodthirsty thugs

That wage the planned wars




Don't fucking offer me the work of killing

For the corrupt and the rotten

For the bourgeois who Sundays go

To mass, for the idols of the three

Ragged books - pure bumpf to wipe one's

Asshole - whose shit was written long ago

By bloodthirsty thugs, ignorant creeps

Maggots processionary, unpalatable

Despicable