The moon is hanging

In the purple sky

The baby′s sleepingWhile its mother sighs

Talking about 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'd 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 every one

Talking about 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