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 now 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
But they'll surely go

This pillar of sleep orbited
By thousands of delicate thoughts
That will surely go

These satellites fleeced at the door
Comprised of the reason of years
That will surely go

As life flashes fitfully down
This spirit so fitfully drowns
A signal is sent from the core
To bring all the satellites home

A quart of the way
A quart of the ghost 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 burden with lead
Plumbum dementia for them

Just don't forget.