| No father and mother are dead
|
| And our relatives have gotten married
|
| And all our friends have chosen themselves
|
| And our teachers and girls
|
| Have gone and drowned with each other
|
| And now that the tablets have stopped helping
|
| And when our priest from the confirmation
|
| Size and point In it, among other things
|
| And no one understands if he shows the way
|
| Or know what direction the wind is blowing
|
| Halta Lotta comes home to me
|
| With the stone filled with grass
|
| And sobs, who in the whole world can you trust
|
| And no John and Yoko Lennon
|
| Her gtt p psychoanalysis
|
| And Robert Zimmerman has fled to the country with the millions
|
| And Marilyn Monroe is losing ground
|
| And Greta Garbo has become ugly
|
| And they try to bribe us with the remnants of the visions
|
| And no princes and presidents
|
| Consciously lying in the race
|
| And no those who would tell the truth
|
| Have started to take it back, they just said
|
| Little Gerhard comes home to me
|
| And every tough p t
|
| And whispers, who in the whole world can you trust
|
| The crevices have fallen silent
|
| And the war has taken s ***
|
| The hijacker sits alone by the cannons
|
| Protect mud-filled graves
|
| The air is heavy with gunpowder
|
| He fingers a little thoughtfully on the cartridges
|
| And when he looks at himself in the mirror
|
| Has it rmnat my deal
|
| And between the halves of his face
|
| Wedges the right in and out
|
| D comes Mother Maria crawling
|
| And her gon are s bl
|
| When she shouts, who in the whole world can you trust |