It's so sad
In a three room flat,
And flat screens
Are not appealing anymore.
Most miserable in the world,
Nerves and cigaretts
And a little bit of alcohol, too.
Against plastic windows
In a thrown away armchair
Lives a simple tramp,
He writes his songs
About the scandals behind these windows
About killograms of ashes
Saga, but...
We're smoking, inhaling with this death
Those bitter minutes,
Those pathetic excuses for our lie, but...
We're smoking, we want everything to be awesome,
Dying each minute,
For with this smoke we're not inhaling life.
Staircases filled with smoke,
Exquisite torment,
And this world is eaiser to be in.
And it's necessary to excuse our sins
As if it is easier.
Not really.
But what then?
What we can do then
If it is so hard to quit
And what do we need then?
We remember God
When things are getting bad, ask him.
We're smoking, inhaling with this death
Those bitter minutes,
Those pathetic excuses for our lie, but...
We're smoking, we want everything to be awesome,
Dying each minute,
For with this smoke we're not inhaling life.