The moon is hanging in the purple sky
The baby´s sleeping while its mother sighs
Talking ´bout the rich folks
Rich folks have the same jokes
And they park in basic places.

The priest is preaching from a shallow grave
He counts his money, then he paints you saved
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 ´bout 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.