He is unclean, unclean, not rich, but he is pure in his soul.
The old Starcraft game is played by a programmer.
The scratch rotates over the table. As if he were forgotten,
The left hand writes the code, the other hand fights.

Oh, programmer, in the spring day you would go in a circle,
Oh programmer, in your homeland you would love a friend,
Oh programmer, would you catch the eyes of the beloved light,
But no, you’re cutting in StarCraft and there’s no girlfriend.

Oh, sweet, sweet programmer, you write me the code,
If I bring it in, love will come to me.
I want love, flowers, movies, wine on a brush.
You write a code of happiness for me and play StarCraft there.