When everything is gone away,
when the cars follow the line
and you and me walk behind,
underneath there’s a monkey.
Running ‘till i ran,
jumping or climbing.
Do whatever you can
but you better sing.
When everything is gone away,
when the name means mine
and troubles are just fine,
man’s yearning for a place to lay,
ready to stand and stay
like in a packed lift.
And dark bubbles can’t say
what is so wrong adrift.
When everything is gone away,
when the night washed the day,
the morning seems dry
and the sky can’t fly.
From flowers i got away
and from all streets of decay
i built a strong man of clay,
i painted him green and grey.
This fleshless icon just wait
like an undeep pound in a field
which will never be sealed.
And now guess, the cries wait.
What else can i pray,
When love’s gone away?
Maxime n'est pas un poète, il n'a que les doigts jaunis par les cigarettes. Il n'est pas non plus un mammouth. Dernières publications : Henry Ford, Àtoi et L'Avortement. Voir tous les articles par Mammouth obsolète