In the field a curly one was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
Lonely, lonely was standing
No one can cut up birchs branches
No one can cut up its curly branches
Lonely, lonely its standing
Lonely, lonely its standing
Ill go into forest for a walk
Ill cut up branches from the stalk
Only three from the stalk
Only three from the stalk
I will make from them three whistles
And go home through blooming thistles
And go home with the music of my whistles
And go home with the music of my whistles
Yeah, yeah
