I like the blue palms
And the iron curtain on the red background
Wet lips under the flock of ravens
And the worm-eaten bodies
I like the toneless echo
And the rotten muck in my head
My native mould of hiccuping, yeah,
I'm a necrophile, I love myself
Sew the buttons instead of eyes
To that who was born dead
Necrophilia, necrophilia,
My exhausted necrophilia
I like to die for show
Plunging into any dirt up to my neck
I like a cool orgasm
And my swollen from faeces toilet seat
And on the early morning
I'll join the queue to the mausoleum [1]
Necrophilia, necrophilia,
My exhausted necrophilia
I like the blue palms
And the iron curtain on the red background
Wet lips under the flock of ravens
And the worm-eaten bodies
I like the toneless echo
And the rotten muck in my head
My native mould of hiccuping, yeah,
I'm a necrophile, I love myself
On the early morning
We'll join the queue to the mausoleum
Necrophilia, necrophilia,
My exhausted necrophilia