Three old babas, old ugly babas.
One fat as bulging porridge – bulging porridge that children reluctantly eat at the breakfast. Dumpy bumpy – so large that birches part, so large that birds leave in autumn as there is no room left when fat baba sits in the forest amid mushrooms.
The second one is hiding behind the most slender of birches. Hey, bony! Why do you loiter in dark corners, why are you hiding in shadows? Join us, boys, join us boys in bars, you hot baba in those leather boots, in those black sexy gloves!
EH! EW!
You so ugly in light, you old baba, bony baba. Why do you scare our children?
Third baba, hairy baba, you beast! You work like a bull and howl as a wolf for your truth, you beast! Shoo! Run back to the forest with your hairy legs, there is your place. With bears and wolfs, you demon, you hobgoblin!
But suddenly a nice man in a black dress appears and he gives a smile. Come babas, all three babas in this cozy nook. Warm in the light of the kindling.
WARM WARMER HOT HOT HOOOOT
Burn you old hags, burn! Bur in the flames of hell! Hot flames of Church will tear your flesh like your hot ideas tore morals of our daughters, the order we have established, the order of God! Burn, burn you babas!
Babas are burning, the flesh is burning, but ideas stay. Dreams of babas don’t burn. In the heat, they rise as dough and bake yummy pretzels, yummy latitudinarian pretzels. Come, our daughters and sons, ones that have escaped the men in black dresses, ones not soaked in their rivers. Come! Eat pretzels of our babas, eat their flesh and feed your souls!
