Оригинален текст
Brown creeps are playing
Bowling with my feelings.
A pumped Pilate whispers in my ear
The fate i already know.
I'll stay in your memory
With the brown albanian suit,
With the bowed worn beret,
Smiling eerie album.
Hang yourselves on sunday,
That's the best you can do.
Nobody will even see you,
Everybody read themselves.
With a scissor you cut
Your friends out of paper
And at the end you notice
I may not be there.
Whether you'll find me
In the circus of a life
Where slender landsurveyors
Constantly mesure my grave.
The cool-yellow moon
Again occultly shines for us.
The voice tells me:"good evening,
I'm your bat."