Your shiny sitting rooms, dirty kitchens,
Your narrow hallways which lead to a thousand dead end,
Especially your bedrooms, infertile, slippery minded
I'm sick of them
I'm sick of them
Your candies, your flying baloons,
Your blank cartridge, burst, coward, splendid guns,
Your never-ending arbitrary stomach-aches,
I'm sick of them
I'm sick of them
What kind of blood can forgive, mister, the hatred in your heart?
Which lake can cleanse the dirt in your hands?
A pinch or a bunch of wad
Ah, it's a lie, what's the difference?
The malice which your grief has been covering with ashes,
Which one of us will it burn?
Which one of us is 'the other one'?