Woe is me, tired and rowdy,
Do I know the way home?
What is left to this world of the clown that I am,
I have only horrible stories in my backpack.
Now I'll sit down and make my backpack sing
to tell a story
a story about old days, ah, about marks and pennies*
Backpack, mutter your scabby rhymes
or I'll cut your strings
Whisper your horrible stories in my ear
when we are home you are just on the way
You must not leave out a word
- not even the beautiful one
Grass doesn't grow where I have walked,
I've brought a lot of misery
I've held many girls in my arms
I've drunk Karhuviina** and coffee
My mind goes back to old days, I remember how I boasted,
there and back again, I'd lay still when I'd be old
Backpack, mutter your scabby rhymes
or I'll cut your strings
Whisper your horrible stories in my ear
when we are home you are just on the way
You must not leave out a word
- not even the beautiful one
My backpack doesn't try to drag me anymore
back to the road to continue my journey
Finally I go back to the workshop I call home
Finally I sing my song to you
On the railway yard again and again
I cling to the switch, the same and rusty,
I turn it back and forth
Backpack, mutter your scabby rhymes
or I'll cut your strings
Whisper your horrible stories in my ear
when we are home you are just on the way
You must not leave out a word
- not even the beautiful one