I don't want to see Ignatio's blood, not now, not ever,
not from a ladder nor any other way.
Que pasa, how's it going. At primary school children
are singing flat, with a gipsy accent.
Try to drink, to stay awake, to hang on, soldier.
You, Rottweiler, war hound Zadojek Candy.
Use your slingshot, use it, be a sweet, be a streamer.
Your love will be rewarded, you'll see legs
being flung through the air, an herb, a Croat and a Serb,
a market place drowned in blood, you'll see eyes
that can't be shut any more.
You can't shut what is no longer there.
You can open a wound, a big one,
breathless, blood red.