Yak romantychno pachne kovbasa
i pomidory v banci zasharilys',
a v plyashechci tak tycho, yak rosa,
horilochka domashnya prychayilas'.

I salo nizno zvablyuye tilcem,
i chlib nastavyv zahorilu spynu.
Yakshcho ty mliyesh, sluchayuchy ce,
chomu z ty, blyad', ne lyubysh Ukrayinu?