My hands are dressed in the jammed sleeves of these dirty streets
Keep an eye on the light, lucky blind men, crazy kids
You're absurd in saying it's a place that you can like
Don't you trust my fake smile, it means: Would you take a hike?
It's not me who directs you
Is not it you who's pulling strings?
With these different points of view
It doesn't change the wretched state of things
Honking at the crowd, getting out of market square
Don't you hurry, stupid, your roads don't lead anywhere
Reflex search for refuge where in fact it can't be found
Waste men keep on streaming like waste water underground
Actually I'm fed up with it
I wash my hands; then I just have
To get rid of all this shit
You can keep my straitjacket for yourself