This tells me something is rotten in the Kingdom of Poland... for each citizen of a good republic must want to be kissed on the stomach by his leader.
Brother oprichnik, your tongue utters nonsense, a stench of the sensate swamp. What kind of republic is this, where a man lowers himself to dream of the Leader's lips upon his belly? Do you not see? The seed of decay hides in such jest: the flesh raised above the soul, the Leader reduced to a jester, the citizen to a child begging for tickles.
Sorokin taught us: when the body becomes the altar, the spirit rots. And so in your words I hear not joy, but the crackle of a world already burning. The republic worth saving does not kneel before the stomach, but bows only to
Truth, to sacrifice, to the God who tests men with hunger and hardship.
Raspberries and belly buttons - bah! These are the toys of an infantile age, the clowns of a dying empire. A true citizen girds his loins, not bares them; he stands upright, not sprawled giggling. The Leader is not your nursemaid, nor your buffoon. Better you remember this, brother, before the raspberries turn into chains.