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Running out of fuel With years it gets harder You get stuck in a rusty rut You slide deeper into sticky mud You feel slimy walls of bogs On your curly locks You wanna fly above But your wings are torn apart You wanna sprinkle the world With a broken wand With one more encore But nobody listens anymore You're safe and sound You're hale and hearty Although being old and wrinkly You've told your stories Once riding horses and donkeys on A carousel's circular track - Making riders pull their faces - Widen their frenzy smiles - Beam like mad hatters - Poke out their eyes - Reach out their arms - To catch nothing but empty space - What a mad house! - Built of infinite Universe cards - The image is shaped like an egg - Distorted like a historical fake - Like a view you every time get - When peeping on tiptoes - Through the door's hole - Like standing-still actors in - The Soundgarden's - Black Hole Sun... - Black Hole Sun... - Whose faces expand into the sides - Out of screens' frames - To bump into nothingness but emptiness

On a merry-go-round Spinning magical bouncing creepy sounds Of childhood laughter and An adolescence puzzle You would like to wring out A new portion of disproportionate lines Out of chocolate tubes Simmering and bubbling In a notorious Charlie's chocolate factory - Hold on! You might get choked! Slyly seeing through Its visitors' fiendish intentions Leaping up and down With midgets and funny creatures To get the best prize The God's most chocolicious voice Still not breathed Into their exhausted thoughts To be able to erect A mousse dessert on a white plate Surrounded by crimson strawberries Whose green wigs Are blown away by whipped cream Dissolving in your mouth To bring you orgasmic draught

You are meandering through The Brighton's pier for 1000x times Fishing for sand's grounds of creative eternity And the sea's splashing waves With its dolphins and sharks´ fins Against the stony artificial quay Of an all-year-round running fair Of 24-7 gambling rooms Of Nutella pancakes and crunchy ice-cream cones On special offer sold from white stalls Open only in summer's zones None of which Can no longer salt your bland artless plonk

Scythe your hair And cut your bitten nails Slurp a coffee of a listless state Under an awning of a retiring shade Time to retreat Time to stop At the peak of your connection to God No regret No looking back in retrospect!