I live on a dead-end track,
all my trains have passed,
I read today's newspaper,
my vines are not drawn.
The sun rises and sets,
everything is like and usually,
when I don't think about you,
I really feel great.
I'm not a slob, nor a prude
and I'm not ashamed of anything,
I have my own little the world
and beyond it the Chinese wall.
And when night falls,
I call for help,
because you are not there.
And every new day
who death is boring,
because you are not there.

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