| Something in the vein of the cities on the plain
|
| Containing decades knitted into single thought
|
| Before your empty hearse contributed a verse
|
| It drove in figure 8's of endless parking lots
|
| Our songs stood idly by as they raised the ridge beam high
|
| And once the recompense of senses had begun
|
| Your maladjusted eyes shouted out «anaesthetized
|
| Castration en masse, anyone?»
|
| Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pipe
|
| (Don't you think it’s time?)
|
| Something in the vein, a blockage in the brain
|
| And if it’s all the same I’ll graciously decline
|
| That dread night you heard I heard you came with tender words
|
| And all the proper paperwork to sign
|
| Now when his ghost comes in to finally rest its phantom limbs
|
| And I again begin to fill your flask with tea:
|
| «You think you’ve spent your years in search of something real?
|
| But you would’ve failed the same
|
| Child, if you were me.»
|
| Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pipe
|
| Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pédophile
|
| Ce n’est pas une chanson sur une peinture d’une pipe
|
| (Don't you think it’s time to take your fangs out of my mind?) |