Sunday, January 17, 2010


Every morning, every night
mourning building a wave
drinking rotten dreams of the light
what a shame to be born
what a waste

When I address to all the sick
being unable to pick up the pace
all things about them are so weak
what a shame they don't understand
what a waste

All of you as I deceive
laughing inside this no good grave
and as a satyr I often freak
with you that think I'm still alive
what a shame

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