| Turn your head and face the hole
|
| from where the white illutions shine
|
| Cast a glance upon the mole
|
| which taints the skin so pure, so fine
|
| The garden hangs inside a room
|
| so dark, yet brightly lit
|
| The stain you poured from silver spoon
|
| the poison stung and bit
|
| With the sound of your machine
|
| ringing in your wealthy dreams
|
| You dance around the calf
|
| and your mind is torn in half
|
| Try to see how you will feel
|
| when, at last you’re left alone
|
| Shoulder to the final wheel
|
| in your machinery of flesh and blood
|
| With the sound of your machine
|
| ringing in your wealthy dreams
|
| You dance around the calf
|
| and your mind is torn in half
|
| Grinding and moaning
|
| the thing comes to a halt
|
| Grinding and moaning
|
| as you pour the salt
|
| With the sound of your machine
|
| ringing in your wealthy dreams
|
| You dance around the calf
|
| and your mind is torn in half |