The moon is hanging in the purple sky

The baby's sleeping while its mother sighs

Talking 'bout the rich folks

Rich folks have the same jokes

And they park in basic places.



The priest is preaching from a shallow grave

He counts his money, then he paints you saved

Talking to the young folks

Young folks share the same jokes

But they meet in older places.



So don't tell me about your success

Nor your recipes for my happiness

Smoke in bed

I never could digest

Those illusions you claim to have going.



The sun is shining, as it's always done

Coffin dust is the fate of everyone

Talking 'bout the rich folks

The poor create the rich hoax

And only late breast-fed fools believe it.



So don't tell me about your success

Nor your recipes for my happiness

Smoke in bed

I never could digest

Those illusions you claim to have going.