| When father and mother are dead
|
| and our relatives have been married
|
| and all our friends have chosen themselves
|
| and our teachers and misses
|
| have gone and drowned with each other
|
| and now that the sleeping pills have stopped helping
|
| and when our priest from the confirmation
|
| stands and points in the blue
|
| and no one understands if he shows the way
|
| or feel which way, the wind is blowing
|
| then Halta Lotta comes home to me
|
| with his voice filled with tears
|
| and sobs, who in the whole world can you trust
|
| And when John and Yoko Lennon
|
| has gone on psychoanalysis
|
| and Robert Zimmerman has fled to the country with the millions
|
| and Marilyn Monroe drop 'taken
|
| and Greta Garbo has become ugly
|
| and they try to bribe us with the remnants of the visions
|
| and when princes and presidents
|
| lying deliberately in the race
|
| and when those who would tell the truth
|
| have started taking it back, they have just said
|
| then Little Gerhard comes home to me
|
| and rises on tiptoe
|
| and whispers, who in the whole world can you trust
|
| The crevices have fallen silent
|
| and the war has come to an end
|
| The hijacker sits alone by the cannons
|
| Over mud-filled graves
|
| the air is heavy with gunpowder
|
| He fingers a little thoughtfully on the cartridges
|
| And when he looks in the mirror
|
| has it cracked in half
|
| And between the halves of his face
|
| the rats wedge in and out
|
| Then Mother Maria comes crawling
|
| and her eyes are so blue
|
| when she shouts, who in the whole world can you trust |