long live poland. god save lord ubu. ubu. ubu. ubu. ubu. ubu. hey, mama, pass me my helmet and my little wooden pick. i shall soon be so cluttered up. i shan't be able to run if they chase me. oh, what a coward. and my pshit sword keeps coming off, and my phynance hook won't stay put either. i'll never be ready and the russians are advancing and will certainly kill me. hey, lord ubu, your knee rolling scissors are falling down. you, i'll kill you with my pshit sword and my face chopper. you're dead. ah, how handsome he looks in his breastplate and helmet, just like a little armor-plated pumpkin. i'm going to mount my horse. gentlemen, bring in the phynance charger. [clopping hoofbeats] i am going to get up. i better sit down. otherwise i shall fall off. stop this runaway brute. lord almighty, i shall fall off and certainly find i'm dead. what an idiot. now, he's back in the saddle again. no, he's fallen off again. oh, pshit, i'm half-dead already. no matter, i'm off to the war, and i shall kill everybo