J ack be fast, and Jack is quick; the famine you say was all just a cheap trick.
So we go and we sing the same dirge: "Bleak, bleak, bleak bottle tap. The grain is gone, and there's not even a scrap."
"You're not so wicked Stalin, for all you do. There's something just more hideous around the corner for us to be screwed."
And I heard them sing in the fields that day: "Bleak, bleak, bleak bottle tap. The copse of trees replaced with the corpse of fields and all because you wish us to yield.
"The old man with the scythe comes to mow us down. We've lost the battle, and the war . . . broken bone, naked marrow scattered on the farm house floor."
And when suppertime came, and we sat around the bare floor, all of us that were left from the famine for the war. We could sing barely for our supper, or carry a tune, but those words come back to haunt us, and to find us lost once more: "Bleak, bleak, bleak bottle tap, it seems Stalin has won his war."