The professionalsí salary is so tremendous, It doesnít matter, whether they spit their teeth on ice. They are paid huge money, tens of thousands, Even for losing and even for a tie. The playerís artful - takes on the whole team, And hits the opponentís teeth with his foot... And as a result his legs get broken, And instead of a stick, he walks with a crutch. For professional players, the desperate fellows, The game is like a lottery - whoever gets lucky. They play with partners, like a bull with a matador, Though a matador really plays with the bull. Your partner is lying just like a dead man, All right, hell with him, let him lie! Donít blunder, Bull! God wants a puck. God is on the stand there, he wonít forgive. For professional players their referee Is not counting the boxing, and face punching at all! And who could have coped with them for twenty years? Itís like a student fighting with a street gang. But not long ago their main trump Is no longer a trump, but nonsense, thatís all. And they get beaten with their own weapons, Plus they get beaten on ice today. The professional players in their Montreal Can break each otherís noses, we donít give a damn! But their representative - you want, you can ask - Was bandaged entirely from head to foot. First the player is open, and then heís plastered, Hut their dumb pastor must blame himself, Before the battle, he knew they were weaklings - The whole team was praying, it didnít help. For professional players, in every channel - A little or a lot going to the bank. Hut our Soviet fellows for that same salary, Arc beating the living daylights out of them! Let there be intrigues right in the top league, And let hockey be called "Canadian." So better trust us - till we meet again, guys, And soccer players... till better days!
* The song was written after the championship series in hockey between U.S.S.R. and Canada in 1967.
© Nathan Mer. Translation, 1991