Surreal is a word that might describe appearances tonight.
Piece of romantic art is what you are.
Nevertheless, be sure that this fragmented world will find your looks.
The post-modern WORLD will love (WORSHIP!) you flat.
As they told you before, a third dimension is really out of tune these days.
Out-of-date, baby.
Crash somewhere and be popular.
Discover what it is in the nucleus of glory.
Join the club of the deaf, dumb and crowned.
Seek the high, glow in the dark and sing "what-the-hey: dead cats do not bark!"
Clever.
Congrats, miss "Flats".
Enter the club but don't look into the kitchen.
There they are cooking for you.
It is a recipe of grey things that hurt.
Don't look into the lounge either.
There you will see nothing but a circus.
A circus full of happy-ass clows dancing around like idiots and singing glory hallelujah while being led into a furious tango (or something) by the phantoms of greed.
The message came through, right?
You can't look anywhere here.
Take a listen, then.
The flapping that is coming from the far left... can you recognize that one?
No, wrong.
Not the superman.
Not a humming bird either.
Yesh, yesh: it is a butterfly.
Wings like flags, coloured and bright.
Or is it a butterfly in the first place?
Maybe I am wrong?
Flags are a drug like no other.
Flags are gods.
Flags flap in the wind; flags dig graves for the brains.
This is where you should jump into the picture, baby "Flats".
Sing it: wipe clean the tables / glory hallelujah... yeah come on, join this tune: ...on which sanity is served.
There we go.
Taste the soup they cooked for you.
Taste the imbecile illusion, which they were cooking in the kitchen.
Wipe clean the tables, on which the glorious dined.
As sure as my name is A, it is always the xxxxxx who clean up after greed, flags, and other such idiots have finished.
