Oh? | Afblijven!! | Yadag! | Y | Yoghurt (3) | Yoghurt (2) | Yoghurt (excerpt) | Yoghurt | And it was hell… | Leeft! | miscellaneous
| Yutaka (Spilker/Chielie) Grey in the morning a squad car pulls up To what’s the door of free France to the free Batavia Oh, free Batavia And you, Yutaka, you hold the tip of the barrel Close to the varicose bourgeois veins Yeah, you, Yutaka, you beat the drum of chaos With the samurai Stolz-in-death And these poor people are not that poor after all Your suicide attempts are on their count And you are smothered in their oil And nothin’ keeps you from setting it ablaze But it’s the purple haze behind your eyes That fills you up with lies, like I would not be proof to pull the trigger on you, but mate, I’d shoot you right between the eyes Because to me you are the antichrist to all that I hold true And though we seem to have the same ideals I couldn’t mate with you You are the antichrist to all that I hold true And though we seem to have the same ideals I couldn’t mate with you You are the antiforce to all that I hold true And though we seem to have the same ideals I couldn’t mate with you Solo “Can you tell me apart from the other four Can you believe these four guys behind me are breakin’ out in a war?”, she said And I believed her She was a bruise, big, blue, black Carrie in a burnt-out car Carry her home if you will My mind ran to standstill She’s as old as Adam’s apple, lurking Edeanesque in the shade of its tree I’d like to hit us with ‘t Would be grotesque Please, my Lord, set us free You never told me I had to believe to be Running out on running out of speed And greed, for to make dollars with And creed, for to make dollars with A dollar’s width is just as wide as you You’re gross, mate Get away, dogman posse You your dog and me my rock ‘n’ roll pose But get these muts away from me, you can’t conceive of how I hate those whoreful heelsnaps thrashing kneecaps Sprightly spuming earth in murder -chaps In khaki all that’s good goes flaky And that’s how they came to Shoot the chocolate flake down from my cone Then bore a hole through this here broad She bears no grudge, she’s as live as sludge And there is no trace of who she was – She has no face She’s skinless, and kinless All them is dead. |