My father he rides with your sheriffs;
And I know he would never mean harm,
But to see both sides of a quarrel
Is to judge without hate or alarm.

Chorus (after each verse):
Oh, oh, helpless and slow,
And you don't have anywhere to go.

You take away homes from the homeless
And leave them to die in the cold.
The gypsy who begged for your presents -
He will laugh in your face when you're old.

Well, one man he drinks up his whiskey,
Another he drinks up his wine.
And they'll drink till their eyes are red with hate
For those of a different kind.

When the rivers run quicker than trouble
I'll be there at your side in the flood.
It was all I could do to keep myself
From taking revenge on your blood

пока поёт цыганский хор...

просрать и проспорить - да, пролить - нет!

ну, бахнул я текилы... и что?