Текст песни Тэм Гринхилл - Я просыпаюсь под столом...

I wake up under a table among scraps and dogs.
A heavy knight's boot kicks me on the edge.
An obsessive thought in my brain: what a fool I was in childhood,
That he dedicated his destiny to serving songs and good ...

And now at noon, they say, a jousting tournament has been appointed.
Mercy, O Lord: I can’t live like that anymore!
Then they will tie it up and drag it again to sing at a drunken feast ...
And in the end, everything will return to scraps, dogs and boots -__-

I wake up under the table from a short sleep
There is fog in the eyes, a groan in the heart, and eight yards to the door ...
Oh poison, poison me! - I pray, but the cup is drunk to the bottom.
Oh dear God, I pray: take my gift with surcharge, huh?

Ah, this diabolical talent - the ability to compose songs ...
I feel sick, but again threatened with a blow forged boot.
Oh, if the word, gentlemen, had the power to kill,
That every knight from me raked a couple of warm lines.

I wake up under the table, I wake up under the table, I wake up under the table ...