They tried to put me on the bicycle.
They tried to hook me to the white electric chair,
and I was groovy.

Papa’s writing in a book, he’s got a master plan.
He stole the phrases from “The mad delirium crush”,
and I was groovy.

Sing a song, when you cry, in spite of all these currencies of suffering.

Honey we were nothing but a love affair.
You were nothing but a love affair to me,
you gave me nothing, nothing, none.
A woman is a crime, she’s the rhythm of a rhyme,
an expression of a code. I can solve it anytime.
There’s a guy sneaking behind her shoulders.

She’s a girl, and he’s a boy, and I know the game they’re playing
’cause they’re dumb, transparent, incapable of stopping me.

A bitch slap on the sideburn.
She was drinking – too tall,
out of proportions, she promised to be small.
I only wanted a real good time.
I only wanted to make her go.

Be careful with the gun. Out of my forehead. I think you’d better run.

A bomb in the apartment, treacherous security,
a blast in the commercial testing results,
dangerous pollution floating on the avenue,
Body renovation Macintosh.
Mommy filled me up with sardonical precautions.
Sent me off to drugs and progressive rock.
Where’s my Tsarina? My Mezarina?

A radical sensation: My body is on the air,
my face is pretty ugly, I see it everywhere.
My mind is separated for better and for worse.
It’s living in my stomach. I’m a lipstick in a purse.

God I’m afraid. I feel like somebody’s watching me or you or him.

It’s a song. When you cry in spite of all these currencies of suffering,
so come down from the ceiling and cry.
They tried to put me on the bicycle.