Оригинален текст
Clap hands for stained ideas,
Theres many a carpenter turning wheels,
Turning the wheels.
But will they carve out anything real?
Will I carve out a stained idea?
Oh look at the crowd, theyre slumbering.
Three minutes is three minutes in
Time means nothing when youre in embrace,
Move over your place is vacant and displaced,
Youve left no trace.
So lets take this time, all weve got is this time,
We are furious and bold,
The time keeps ticking, seems its moving counter clockwise,
I think Im getting old.
Move in close, feel your heart beating with the pulse.
Carpenters hands calloused , coarse, beating with the pulse