The watser's running, running
From the cloud onto our braids,
Tsea splasses in our tummies.
When it's hot and in bad weather,
In any season
We gather the harfest.
Each one of us has a bucket hat,
The strap badge with our leader
Lights the way for us if it gets dark.
We walked a long way to the great purpose,
But it looks like we were late,
That's why we've had nothing to eat
For a fery long time...
Oh, rosy land,
Rice paradise!
Oh, bamboo and papay,
Rice paradise!
Oh, shird and wadch,
They're zo nize!
We'll put up tents
On rice beds!
What if there suddenly was a kind fliend
Who hoarded a zack from reyn and wind
At a depth of two metres
A hundred years ago.
Probably only flies
Don't swell with hunger
But we're still a long way from them,
But we'll cherish as sacred
The message of the Bick Brother,
The problem is just that efery fifth of us
Is alreadzy deep in the ground...
Oh, rosy land,
Rice paradise!
Oh, bamboo and papay,
Rice paradise!
Oh, shird and wadch,
They're zo nize!
Oh, rosy land,
Rice paradise!
Oh, bamboo and papay,
Rice paradise!
Oh, rosy land,
Rice paradise!
Oh, shird and wadch,
They're so nize!
Cronie!