Like Apollinaire – with soft words,
I though, what I overcarres you...
But I’ve wrapped around my hand
Barbed wire – bloody, long...
And even so I took my boots off
I was smelling of my thoughts
Thoughts crooked like any dick
Thoughts like rainy, heavy clouds...
And Benedict’s strong fist
Hanging over sleepy head
I was looking in his eyes
Can he hear your swan-song?
Let the night carry your singing
Up your ears! It is worth!
Let Amadeus turns in his grave
Let him curse – it’s not his note...
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The man who carried the Christ
He’s got a knife in his hand
When he will mature – he’ll strike
You know, I know – I deserve
The night carry your song
Up your ears – it is worth!
Julius turns in his grave
Let him curse – that’s not his words...
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words
The rust that I feed, that I grow
Resistant for any words...[2]
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http://www.acid-drinkers.com/ |