Waves spit on my memories

and flies lick remains like salt on cliff

swallowing desolation's wan stains

and skies without any prayin'.

You have generated just this:

eyes which float on cages and black tones,

settlin' on to paltry customs

while humans are going to dance.


Now you're just the king of the silly ones

crown slips out of your head as if it were snow

So you're just the lord of the losers and

your sceptre gives in without a lament.


Frenzied worker ants all lined up

bow in front of ghosts an' gods,

heavily made-up golems

smiling from rotating chariots.

But a shadow comes in

breaking through the wall of truth

while that fire is eating its flesh

passing through roads and nerves.


Well you're just the king of the foolish one

crown slips out of your head as if it were snow

Oh you're just the lord of the wretched and

your sceptre gives in without a lament.