Surreal is a word that might describe appearances tonight
Piece of romantic art is what you are
Nevertheless, be sure that this fragmented world will find your looks
The post-modern WORLD will love (WORSHIP! ) you flat
As they told you before, a third dimension is really out of tune these days
Out-of-date, baby
Crash somewhere and be popular
Discover what it is in the nucleus of glory
Join the club of the deaf, dumb and crowned
Seek the high, glow in the dark and sing "what-the-hey: dead cats do not bark!"
Clever
Congrats, miss "Flats"
Enter the club but don't look into the kitchen
There they are cooking for you
It is a recipe of grey things that hurt
Don't look into the lounge either
There you will see nothing but a circus
A circus full of happy-ass clows dancing around like idiots and singing glory hallelujah while being led into a furious tango (or something) by the phantoms of greed
The message came through, right?
You can't look anywhere here
Take a listen, then
The flapping that is coming from the far left can you recognize that one?
No, wrong
Not the superman

Not a humming bird either
Yesh, yesh: it is a butterfly
Wings like flags, coloured and bright
Or is it a butterfly in the first place?
Maybe I am wrong?
Flags are a drug like no other
Flags are gods
Flags flap in the wind; flags dig graves for the brains
This is where you should jump into the picture, baby "Flats"
Sing it: wipe clean the tables / glory hallelujah yeah come on, join this tune: on which sanity is served
There we go

Taste the soup they cooked for you
Taste the imbecile illusion, which they were cooking in the kitchen
Wipe clean the tables, on which the glorious dined
As sure as my name is A, it is always the who clean up after greed, flags, and other such idiots have finished