The fried fish takes a hike down the street with an old negro slave and his bicycle.
A couple of wornout shoes and a song that you´d never forget
announced the presence of dead kings and queens.
The tales told of those who doubted the suspicion would work,
and four blonds in white dresses waves without entering.
A fork and a knife – take a hike –
the trees didn´t leave before the winter pulled through.
In the land of the mulatta I am not me but someone other to you than I used to be.
And yellow cabs from Russia still amaze me.
Seven long hours in seven days from now, I´ll spend seven years in a cell and seven without you.