My hands are dressed in the jammed sleeves of these dirty streets.
Keep an eye on the light, lucky blind men, crazy kids.
You're absurd in saying it's a place that you can like.
Don't you trust my fake smile, it means 'Would you take a hike?"
It's not me who directs you.
Is not it you who's pulling strings?
With these different points of view
It doesn't change the wretched state of things.
Honking at the crowd, getting out of market square,
Don't you hurry, stupid, your roads don't lead anywhere.
Reflex search for refuge where in fact it can't be found.
Waste men keep on streaming like waste water underground.
Actually I'm fed up with it.
I wash my hands; then I just have
To get rid of all this shit.
You can keep my straitjacket for yourself. |
