((Oh Mr. Under Shirt)) You lift up your shirt and cross the sleeping bodies in the blood and freedom of the passers-by. You pass through the resounding, repeated shouts of torture, passing through unmarked graves and graves. You lift up your shirt and you pass hostage mothers taken prisoner by the burning smell of acid on the fragmented skin of women and girls Oh Mr. under the shirt you pass the burnt ash of blue girls on the street pavement and white scarves In the place of Iran, you go under Mr. Shirt, you pass the Khorasan Prostitutes' houses, Khuzestan Thirst, and Sistan and Baluchistan, you lift up the shirt, you pass the broken Kulberan pollen of Kurdistan, you pass over the bodies Slaughtered by the salesmen and children and on the empty tables of the workers Oh, Mr. Mehdi Torabi, Mr. Sub-Pierra Reed crossed the Leader closer to the people. You have obeyed and Saeed al-Tusi reads for you the Quran and the Noah of Imam Hussein !!!!!!!!!!! Shame on the sky, it's raining? No, this is the only gladiator who sells spits on his own!