Текст: Forward, Russia. Eleven.

Quit making faces at the one I love
These errant tightropes that you're thinking of
Can't be undone the instant that they're set
Above this scorched and torrid hallowed ground or

So they say (in the city)
So they say (in the sea)
Set your watch (round the corner)
While they bleed

I heard a rumour that you lost your job
Was it just hearsay or of factual ground?
This tightrope's set up, there's no going back
To sepiata and the plastic surgeons with (?)

Pineapple cones bleaching your bones
Pineapple cones bleaching your bones
Pineapple cones...

They came on the crest of a wave
The cusp of equinox today
This pillar of sleep orbited
By thousands of delicate thoughts
These satellites fleeced at the door
Comprised of the reason of years
As life flashes fitfully down
This spirit so fitfully drowns
A signal is sent from the core
To bring all the satellites home
Home, home...

A quart of the ... still remains (?)
Tsunami that rip at the skin (?)
Anonymous wrenches of blame
A great tidal wave
Over the house on the hill
The snakes are all burdened with lead
Plumbum dementia for them

Just don't forget