Voodoocult King Of The Beautiful Cockroach
High on the hills of time, high on the razor's edge high
on the strang of life
Deep in the mire, in the jungle of knives, dancing, we
are, in danger zones
Amongst the healer-dealers, we celebrate the coronation
of our own tristesse.
And early in the morning I seek my way back to a
beautiful bed
that's my life I'm never too early that's how it is, my
question too hungry
All I do was asking always, always asking oo fast, don't
ask way -
or kill you by my true confession.
I guess I need a father to look up to your father
But he was never there, and never to please, makes me
never feel quilty.
In a deca(y)de...of essence sense and ethics - passing by
like an SST crashing on tycoon.
Smell of man-piss ever corner this is no moral tale
the pleaasures of sex, paralysed by decadence
no escape, through a toilet window, a smell of dirtesse,
spoiled my inspiration
I celebrate the coronation of my own tristesse.
Sit on me come sit on me. I'm lazy. I marry the crazy my
arms and legs are willing
but my body loves the chair too much
