I'm the cynic of the Sunday's storm
I seek the power of the king vulture
I see La Catrina's poplar trees nearby
A triple spiral noticed by the eye
The static water searching for the sea
A broken lift where it can be free
A thousand moles on the paper bag skin
A bubble in the chest that doesn't have a pin
The pancreatic driven by driver ants
Where the light cannot reach the plants
Tote schwarze Ente unter Wasser
Von dort aus ruft er den Erblasser an
And the next life comes in thai red
Neither a lotus nor an ankh on the forehead
The kind of wound that cannot be stitched
A shroud will tell where to find the itch
