This Sunday is like a movie, a cheap "B" movie
A guy is moving about in an uninteresting background
Screenwriter took the dough, then he started drinking
And the dialog turned out rock bottom, zero, simply nothing
All the saints are promenading in heaven
A gold dust is sprinkling
But I'm roaming again without you
And to hell is so near
So much I would want to meet you once, just this one day
Or to turn back time a week, but it can't be
Though, the taste of loneliness, I know straight to pain
When there is no other expectations, oh well, no matter
All the saints are promenading in heaven
A gold dust is sprinkling
But I'm roaming again without you
And to hell is so near
Only the world spins with me
Stars are burning like steel
You have ejected me from your memory
That I'm feeling sorry for myself
In heaven today all, all the saints are having a ball..(x3)