The minister of health and youth sends his son to sell crack he gets the profit,
the son gets the crap
Here, where the mothers are pimps blackmail daughters to sell smack
to the judge and to the priest.
You play a game like a cricket in the garden of blood
"And when you live as a boy you better shut your mouth
Or when you live as a boy you give them a scent of blood or they break your neck"
Literature is dead because you know everything about death anyway.
Hearts are firegutted hooks tar benzoel and murder-oxide.
Fire's our blood
The minister of law and order is dancing on our grave. And rave!
Decade of rottening nicely and self-enjoyable.
The mothers of courage try to play their role in perfection but their seats are cheap
and the lodge is empty anyway.
Masonic lies hang like cobwebs from a celling of baroque stucco
sometimes angry young men climb up and hang on ceiling peeing on the lodge's chairs
buy they are empty anyway.

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