Hello?
May I listen to the song you have reserved for the gray mass that is waiting?
Thank you
Everybody tune your receivers and listen up
It lingers on while we live
Ooh-shalaboom, baby it tells us where we stand
And where do we stand?
In the drum-fire?
We stand hidden in the morning smog - watching as other characters walk by
At 9 'o clock we can see the second one of today
A fine specimen, indeed
One of those whose backs have been broken by haste
One of those who have nothing to say about their own course
They ask for no breaks and have no brakes

Ha
It looks above, only to see clouds that stand as omens of some heavy rain
It looks at the traffic
It is going to give it up
It is of little use
Monitoring a heartbeat is of little use
Because they always lose
Happier days do not exist
They are smacked the fuck out of by tiny grenades of hate falling down from the skies like things that wouldn't make a difference
Afterall, things hardly make any difference, do they?
In fact, gray masses can well be cracked open like sardine cans and this procedure could not possibly make a difference

Oh look
The fine specimen is looking at the traffic again
For a moment, it might realise how Miss Disaster still belongs to us
But not for one moment does this fine specimen believe that we could serve ourselves a little Riot On The Rocks
We could, of course, hula down the streets and sing loudly while glass escorts our ride with a jingle
We could, of course, fly low with a spark in our eyes
We could, yes
But let's pick up pace again
Jingle bells and farewell