The moon
is hanging in the purple
The baby's sleeping
while its mother
Talking about the rich folks
Rich folks
have the same jokes
And they park in basic places.
The priest is preaching
from a shallow
He counts his money
then he paints you
Talking to the young folks
Young folks
share the same jokes
But they meet in older places
So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed
I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going.
The sun is shining
as it's always done
Coffin dust is the fate of everyone
Talking about the rich folks
The poor create the rich hoax
And only late breast-fed fools
believe it
So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed
I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going

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