The TV goes on with a hell of a hallå¥.
Now the vultures are flapping around in our airwaves.
One is a joke and the other is fun
which can avoid essentials.
If you're trendy and hip, then you've got a haircut.
Then you can play a little pop and keep the mask.
à If you are quasi and blasé, you can grin and smile
and spread joy among the living patrask.
The same contentless wave. The same greedy mygel and bow.
As long as the shit has an audience in its pop factory, I'm low.
A game with attributes; I turn off and go out.
Go to town and get thrown around in corridor lights.
I'm lost and scared and come into some party
like cozy as an unmanned madhouse.
Here the cold is total, every look is so cool.
Say, is there heat here on this glacier ¤ren?
I get some cryptic answer from a girl who is looking for a man,
and who fingers so nervously in the toilet.
Same barren , icy wave. The same desperate emotional arc.
As long as the dance has a chance to become a big budget, I'm low.
Shit! Crap! What kind of damn elite is rampant?
Drugs! Drug! Give me something before I'm so low I implode.
But I bite and smile, take a lukewarm beer and watch
the same dry spectacles that on my TV.
Even though I'm trying to join in and understand
I'm now such a goddamned piece of shit.< br/>For me dirt and latrine are in the trend hierarchy.
I can take that. But all these cold looks
are just misery. Who benefits from this,
I say and see how Mammon stands and nods.
The same save-yourself monologue. The same love på own move.
As long as Mammon moves forward with his party program, I'm low.
It's competition and grades and a lot of filth on the sly.
And everything revolves around a dream that is a lie.
With artificial answers, the weekly press remains
and makes a good living from the fact that we constantly lose our appetite .
And the TV goes on with a damn hallå¥.
But to hell that someone is there for Your sake.
Get Every time you lose faith, Stenbeck earns a million.
Hooray! You know you're valuable?!
Same dirty, scumbag wave. The same elaborate arch.
As long as mold is a measure of our deficit, I am low.
Profit! Profit! There's a hell of a lot of crap going around.
Low! Low! There is so much greedy bow that one demands.
But I crawl back home and pull down my blind.
Shut down and put my tail between my legs.
I is a loser, in a game, that has been lost and played wrong,
and returns home both frozen and alone.
And the TV goes on with a damn hallå¥.
Both in the can and in reality.
And with artificial answers, the weekly press remains
and spreads nonsense all over the planet.
Same barren, icy wave. The same greedy mygel and boo.
As long as the shit has an audience in its pop factory, I'm low.
As long as the dance has a chance to become a big budget so I am low.
As long as mygel is a measure of our deficit then I am low.
So low ¤nge Mammon advances with his party program so I'm LÃÈG!

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