| He keeps on moving his moustache
|
| Gets you fussy, makes you rush
|
| He’s got no legs but he walks
|
| He’s got no mouth but talks
|
| Tick tock, click clack
|
| He pulls a trigger, pulls it back
|
| My time, your time is under attack
|
| We run on a circle track
|
| A bossy three-handed man
|
| Who gives me a triple slap in my face
|
| Years of tension, a second of slack
|
| He is so tiny but hard to embrace
|
| From the top of the world he shows you
|
| No respect, don’t regret, we’re screwed
|
| If time is gold, we are broke for good
|
| Hopeless beggars, dance to this beatific flute
|
| By towers supported
|
| On a human wrist resorting
|
| There’s no word «retired»
|
| For the soldier with the shoulder straps
|
| Phlegmatic eyes dilated
|
| Trickin' tick-tacktics underrated
|
| Time to eat, time to sleep
|
| Time to go back to your soil crib
|
| Time to go back to your soil crib
|
| Oh what a mechanical miracle
|
| Global dictator, massive superior
|
| Like a winding toy that sits at the porch
|
| This bull-headed boy
|
| Is a watchman on the life-time verge
|
| From the top of the world he shows you
|
| No respect, don’t regret, we’re screwed
|
| If time is gold, we are broke for good
|
| Hopeless beggars, dance to this beatific flute
|
| Striking, beating, sweeping our lives away
|
| The more we struggle
|
| The more we lose our precious days
|
| Hearts are swinging to the rhythm of imminence
|
| Should we never grab a tail of what we cannot own?
|
| Our time is a snail, running faster than any wind, any wind can blow
|
| Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah
|
| Oh, any wind can blow
|
| Striking, beating, sweeping our lives away
|
| Striking, beating, sweeping our lives away |