In the vastness of the Motherland wonderful,

Tempering in battles and labor,

We put together a joyful song
About a great friend and leader.

Comrade Stalin, you are a great scientist -

in linguistics you know what you mean,
and I'm a simple Soviet prisoner,
and my friend is a gray Bryansk wolf.

For what I sit, I really do not know,

but prosecutors, apparently, are always right,
I'm sitting today in the Turukhansk region,
Where in front of the king you sat in exile.

In other people's sins, we confessed,

stage met evil fate,
we believed you so, Comrade Stalin,
how, perhaps, they did not believe themselves.

And here I sit in the Turukhansk region,

The escorts, like dogs, are rude,
I understand this, of course,
as a sharpening of the class struggle.

That rain, then snow, then the gnats over us,

but we are in the taiga from morning till morning, (Basically all Day)
here, from the spark, a flame was lit up -
thank you, I'm warming by the fire.

We dream of you when in a party cap

and in the tunic when you go to the parade.
We cut wood in Stalin's style, and chips,
and the chips flew in all directions.

We carry our heavy cross for nothing,

Frost smoky and in the melting rains.
And as the trees fall on the bunks,
Not knowing the insomnia of the leaders.

Yesterday we buried two Marxists.

We did not cover them with a bum.
One of them was a rightist deviator,
The other, as it turned out, had nothing to do with it.
Before he died forever,
You bequeathed the last words.
He asked you to sort things out
And he quietly cried out: "Stalin is a head!"

I've been drinking a thousand years, Comrade Stalin.

And let them die in prison.
I believe there will be more cast iron and steel
Per capita in the country.