I wake before the sun,
Clock ticking like a drum,
Coffee’s cold before it’s poured,
Same scene I can't outrun.

Your words once lit the skies,
A sentence was my rise,
But silence grows like ivy now,
Across my hope’s sunrise.

6:30 comes, I hold my breath,
6:35 — still chasing death.
6:40 hums like static air,
And then the world just isn't fair…

6:42, where are you?
My heart still waits like it used to do.
6:42, still no sign,
Another day, no morning line.

Some love is made of flames,
Ours lived in typed remains.
Simple words at break of day,
Now haunt me like a name.

The years don’t pull me free,
Still check that screen at 6:43.
I dance, I laugh, I play the part,
But you're the rhythm in my heart.

6:50 breaks the spell again,
Another wound that has no end.
I scroll through ghosts and memories,
Still trapped in old routines...

6:42, where are you?
My heart still waits like it used to do.
6:42, still no sign,
Another day, no morning line.

I told myself, “you’ll heal with time,”
But clocks just lie, they never rhyme.
A single message, once so small,
Now holds the weight of all.

The seasons changed, the world spun fast,
But every dawn recalls the past.
No note, no smile, no calm hello —
Just time that moves too slow...

6:42, I still do,
Dance with shadows, dream of you.
6:42, you're still mine,
In every tick, in every line...

6:42

It’s noon, and the rain's falling wild and free,
First time in this city, no map for me,
Suitcase soaked, heartbeat on the run,
When a shadow called softly, "Come, come, come."

Old thin man, a flicker in his glance,
A secret taxi, a crazy chance,
Doubt in my bones, trust in the rain,
So I jumped in — and never felt the same.

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Slick streets spinning past in a liquid haze,
Stone and river, tangled in a daze,
Every turn a heartbeat, every light a sigh,
Old ghosts humming through the violet sky.

Past the bends and the broken stone,
Past songs of hearts I’ve never known,
Through heavy rain, through silver veils,
To the street where my own story sails.

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Silver rivers down the glass,
Mirrored skies and futures past,
I closed my eyes, I heard it say:
"You’re already home, you’re on your way."

Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Wheels spinning dreams through the pouring city,
Take me to Bernardinų gatve, secret taxi,
Old town’s whisper calling me, set me free.

Take Me to Bernardinų Gatve

Golden rails in the evening light,
Rolling slow through Jánská’s sigh,
Only fifteen kilometers wide —
From heart to heart, just a blink of the sky.

The tram hums a sleepy song,
Winding the hills where dreams belong,
A tiny world between two towns,
A velvet thread I could have found.

But I stay, I wait,
I hold back fate,
Watch the open doors...
And let them close once more...

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, as good as it gets.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A fleeting chance I will forget,
Liberec fades in the gold sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Fading wheels sing down the line,
I see the last car slip from time,
I could have flown, I could have tried —
But I stood frozen in my mind.

Behind the glass, the riders fade,
Tiny faces in the shade,
And Jablonec, so close, so near —
Becomes a land I'll never hear.

And I stay, I wait,
I hold back fate,
One tiny step...
I never take.

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, as good as it gets.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A fleeting chance I will forget,
Liberec fades in the gold sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Oh, the roads we never tread,
The songs we never sang instead,
The hands we never dared to hold,
The dreams left whispering in the cold...

🎶 Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A perfect moment, a sweet regret.
Rolling faster, silver gleam,
Carrying hope, carrying dreams.
Evening tramway to Jablonec —
A story written in silhouettes,
Liberec fades in the soft sunset —
And I just watched it leave... 🎶

Evening Tramway to Jablonec

Sometimes I wish I could freeze the sky,
In that one sweet second when you looked in my eyes.
Hold the moment like a breath so deep,
A heartbeat caught in a velvet sleep.
Other times I crave the blur and rush,
Skip the pain, the weight, the aching hush.
Just press fast-forward through the night,
Chasing a flicker, chasing light.

But what if joy was waiting there—
In the shadows, soft and rare?
Would we miss it, lost in speed,
Trading gold for broken need?

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Life’s a rhythm, not a line—
Fast-forward, rewind.

What’s the cost of skipping pain,
If love is blooming in the rain?
A whisper, hidden in the noise—
A silver thread, a secret choice.
If all was easy, would we dance,
Or sleepwalk through the dream by chance?
It’s the contrast makes it glow,
The highs, the lows, the ebb, the flow.

So would you trade the mess for ease,
The storm for silence, pain for peace?
Or let it play, this sacred tape—
Each frame a shape we can’t escape?

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Life’s a rhythm, not a line—
Fast-forward, rewind.

Let the record play, let the shadows move,
There’s beauty in the cracks, and grace in the groove.
Maybe the magic lives between—
The paused breath and the in-between.

Stop. Go. Slow it down.
Feel the beat, spin around.
Don’t rush, don’t rewind—
Just dance in time.
Fast-forward… rewind…
Fast-forward… rewind…

Fast-Forward, Rewind

I sit in the bank, far back in the corner,
My shirt is ironed, my face is horror.
The ceiling is beige, the carpet is grey,
The copier sounds like it’s dying today.
I count the clients, I count the hours,
I count the reasons for existential showers.
Mrs. Resch wants to see her passbook again,
And asks if interest can also go back to ten.

🎶 I sit in the bank —
and I’m losing my mind.
Between account statements and retirees blind.
My life is a frozen savings plan,
And the coffee tastes like regret from a can.
🎶 I sit in the bank —
and the clock stands still,
While Mr. Zischka rants about war and his will.
I think I used to be human, with hope and style…
Now I just say: “Please sign here. With a smile.” 🎶

I dream of palm trees, of freedom, of flight,
But I stamp transactions with dead-eyed might.
My boss says, “Mr. Mayr, smile a bit more,”
I say nothing. I stare through the glass at the void next door.
There’s a poster that reads: “We build your trust!”
All I want is to scream, or run to the forest, a must.
Open an account with the pen on a chain,
Like I’m the office clown in a vest full of pain.

“This bank is a tomb, a socially acceptable asylum!
A museum for the permanent storage of souls in shirts!
And I— I am the mummified remnant of hope,
Between team meetings and the thermos flask of despair!”

🎶 I sit in the bank —
and my brain starts to twitch,
Between 13 IBANs and patriotic kitsch.
I hand out the flyer, I print out the chart,
And wonder aloud: when did I fall apart?
🎶 I sit in the bank —
and my mind starts to burn,
When clients ask if they can mine Bitcoin in turn.
I used to write poetry late in the night,
Now I stamp receipts. And flinch at the light. 🎶

🎶 I’ve squeezed my soul into forms and ticks,
Misplaced my dreams in deposit slips.
I shout at the printer, I speak to the wall,
I dance with statements down the hall.
🎶 I’ll go home now — or maybe the woods,
Perhaps there I’ll feel something that’s good.
Or I’ll stay… become branch manager instead…
Because even madness
has rules in this dread. 🎶

“Welcome to your local bank. Would you like a fixed-rate product?”

The Bank

He says, “I’m tolerant, I read, I care”
Then scoffs at meat and glares at prayer
Corrects your terms, your tone, your pace
With a trembling hand and a pained face
He tweets in bed, he flinches loud
If someone thinks against the crowd
At work, at home, in every store
You say one word — he clears the floor

📢 Talks like Gandhi, lives like grey
Ethics change from day to day
He claims he listens, then shuts you down
In café corners all over town

Clear throat — AHEM!
That’s how he strikes
Corrects your speech, your jokes, your likes
Clear throat — AHEM!
He’s always “right”
But never lifts, avoids the fight
He met his match — they thought alike
Both thin in arms and thick in mic
Clear throat — AHEM!
Love on repeat
Till she met strong values down the street

The neighbour moved in — sun on his skin
Blue eyes bold, and heavy within
With church on Sunday, hands like stone
And principles carved into bone
She baked a pie. Just being nice.
He helped her carry vegan rice.
Then talked of faith, of strength, of grace
And something flickered in her face…

He watched her smile like never before
Watched her not correct the score
She said, “He listens, but he’s not afraid”
And our woke guy just… cleared and stayed

Clear throat — AHEM!
He paced, he cried
Said “This is sexist!” but she sighed
Clear throat — AHEM!
Still no reply
Just hymns next door and lifted sky
The blonde one laughed, the girl had peace
He choked on terms like “toxic” and “please”
Clear throat — AHEM!
Now all alone
With cancelled plans and a compost phone

“She betrayed the cause,” he said to himself
As he watered the fern… and blocked twelve more people on social media.

Clear throat — AHEM!
The world moved on
Muscles win when morals are gone
Clear throat — AHEM!
He still performs
But no one claps for weathered norms
She found a man who holds the door
He fact-checks memes and lives alone
Clear throat — AHEM!
Like it’s enough…
But deep inside, he knows it’s rough

Ahem.
She never even looked back.

Clear Throat (Ahem)

I came to the Alps for a breath of air,
Some schnitzel, some photos, a souvenir bear.
But then at the museum, the lady said:
“They kept the beer cold… with mountain ice instead!”
I laughed, I blinked, I said, “Say what?!”
“You took snow blocks and shoved them in a pot?”
She smiled: “No, in the cellar, we’d gently slide—
A glacier chunk to keep the foam alive!”

🎶 They used ice! For beer!
From the mountain to the mug, brought it near!
While I back home in desert land —
Would've had to chill it by wishful hand.
No snow, no frost, not a single chill,
Just sun and sand and heat that kills.
🎶 You Austrians are crazy, my friend, I fear…
You climbed for blocks —
To cool your beer! 🎶

I sat on a bench, and I started to think,
Would I walk for hours… just for a drink?
In my town, a fridge was a miracle find,
Here they had snow — and Alpine grind.
No camels with ice. No frost in the tent.
No cellar but sand, and the shade we invent.
We drank our tea like warriors bold,
While you rolled a glacier to drink it cold?!

Imagine this:
"Abdullah, fetch the mountain!”
"Which one?"
"The one with snow!"
"But it’s 3,000 kilometers away!"
"Exactly. We’ll be sober by arrival."

🎶 You used ice! For beer!
I need a moment. I need to cheer.
Your ancestors were cool — literally!
While mine just drank under the date palm tree.
Different lands, different tricks,
You had glaciers, we had fire bricks.
🎶 But I respect your chilly pioneer —
You risked your knees…
To cool your beer. 🎶

Now when I sip my Coke on ice,
I think of brave men, who paid the price.
Climbing peaks, sliding down with cheer…
All for one goal:
Cold Austrian beer. 🍻❄️

Ice For Beer

Back in class at fourteen years,
With burned potatoes and melted shears.
I chopped my thumb, I fried a spoon,
My pasta turned to mush by noon.
The teacher sighed, pulled out her hair,
My cake was smoking. I didn’t care.
She pointed her spatula like a sword of fate,
And said, “You’ll starve, boy — it’s already too late.”

🎶 But I didn’t starve! Oh no, I thrived!
On nuggets and noodles and meals vacuum-sealed tight!
I lived on lasagnas that came in a tray,
With instructions in bold: “Pierce film, microwave!”
I proved her wrong! I gained some mass!
Okay, I wheeze now when I climb a stair pass…
🎶 But hey — I didn’t starve!
(Just slowly died inside.) 🎶
And that’s survival, baby.

Thirty years, I’m full of pride,
And sodium levels I can’t hide.
I smile now when I see the shelf,
Of pre-cooked food I never cooked myself.
I’ve got a freezer full of plastic plates,
With names like “Country Beef” and “Dinner Greats.”
And while my doctor cries and sighs,
I just nod and say, “It’s portion-sized!”

She said: “You’ll never survive out there.”
But guess what, Frau Gruber?
They made pizza that fits in a toaster.
And yes, I now take medication for things I can’t pronounce.
But it’s called modern living.

🎶 I didn’t starve! I outlived the class!
Except Markus… but he ate quinoa, so pass.
I heat my dinner in just three minutes flat,
Even desserts come frozen and shaped like a cat!
So yes — I’m round, I’m slow, my knees cry at night,
But I proved her wrong with every salty bite.
🎶 I didn’t starve — I just…
defrosted my dreams. 🎶
(Slightly bloated, but emotionally full.)

So here’s to the meals that never required skill,
To the sauces that came in a sachet, still.
She said I’d starve.
I laughed.
And ate.
Now I’m full…
...of regret.

I Didn’t Starve

First time on the Baltic Sea...
Just me... and duty-free...
The sun barely sets, and the coffee’s weak...
But my heart is Nordic now...

Stockholm behind me, the seagulls cry,
Bought a cinnamon bun, didn’t know why.
The deck’s full of strangers in windproof coats,
Kids licking ice cream, dodging goats. (why are there goats?)

Islands drift by like forgotten dreams,
Red wooden houses burst at the seams.
One boat, one dock, one family home,
Motorboat purrs like a cat on chrome.

Feeeerry Ferry … Feeeerry Ferry …
Awesome trip on a Northern ship.
Feeeerry Ferry … Feeeerry Ferry …
Waving at trees while my soul takes a dip.

There’s a sauna somewhere on deck C,
Next to a nightclub and a lukewarm tea.
The DJ plays ABBA, ironically,
But my heart shouts “Fernando” earnestly.

A Finnish couple starts to flirt,
In woolen sweaters with reindeer dirt.
I lose at blackjack, win at life,
Married a cloud, now I'm ferry-wife.

Turku waits in the gentle dawn,
Did I change, or just yawn too long?
Little islands whispered my name,
In a language only fjords can claim…

(Refrain – louder, euphoric drop)
Feeeerry Ferry … Feeeerry Ferry …
Awesome trip on a Northern ship.
Feeeerry Ferry … Feeeerry Ferry …
Salt in my hair, freedom on my lip.

(Outro – soft piano chords, raindrops)
24 hours of brackish bliss...
Thanks for the ride...
Ferry kiss...

Ferry Ferry

Arrived in Turku, off the slow grey boat
Breath smelled of salt, coat too thin for this coat
The wind said "Welcome" with a kick to the knee
And I thought — directions? That’d be key

She had a shopping bag full of rye
Eyes like clouds in a pastel sky
I said, “Anteeksi...” — barely got that word out
When she flinched like I’d just pulled a shiv from my pouch

She leapt like a seagull sensing doom
All I wanted was to find the bathroom
Or maybe just the number one tram
But to her I was Ragnar, back from a raid — damn

🎶 Hands up! Hands up!
Like I asked for money
Hands up! Hands up!
Turku, this ain't funny
Hands up! Hands up!
All I said was “Moi!”
Now I'm treated like
A criminal decoy 🎶

My Google Maps froze, like the Aura's face
Even the cobblestones judged my race
Every bike lane hissed "not for you"
And the cathedral chimed, "You're just passing through"

I sat on a bench near a plastic swan
Rethinking my life since Turku's gone
Full panic at a tourist "hi"
Where friendliness apparently comes to die

I just wanted directions, not a SWAT reply
But Turku saw me and chose to cry

🎶 Hands up! Hands up!
Not a mugger, not a threat
Hands up! Hands up!
Still I’m public enemy, yet
Hands up! Hands up!
Middle-aged fear parade
Couldn’t even get
To the Lidl arcade 🎶

Oh Turku, you're quiet and cute at first glance
But under the calm — no second chance
You give cold stares and supermarket dread
I only asked a question, not for the dead

🎶 Hands up! Hands up!
I surrender, I retreat
Hands up! Hands up!
You win, Baltic fleet
Hands up! Hands up!
Let the swans judge me true
Even they whisper,
“Don’t ask things here, boo.” 🎶

Hands Up In Turku

Nigel from Portsmouth, he lives by the shore
In a semi-detached with a damp cellar floor
Where DVDs gather, from Shilton to Buffon
He talks in his sleep about catching the long one

His wife Angela says he once saved a pen on the beach
When he dove into dog poo, just slightly off reach
He’s got gloves in the closet, he calls them "his lads"
And a cardboard cut-out of Lev Yashin’s pads

🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
Whispers stats like a haunted recital
🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
He could’ve coached keepers to glorious titles
But he just watches replays, rewinds the denial
Nigel... still stuck in the spiral

He’s mapped every weakness Joe Hart ever showed
Has diagrams proving why Reina imploded
He breaks down the moment when Banks made that save
Then cries into tea when he thinks of the brave

He scoffs at De Gea with audible pain
"Positioning! Lateral movement!" again
His sofa is worn in the shape of a dive
A man built for greatness who never arrived

🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
Talks reflexes like holy revival
🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
Mentally marking each goal’s downward spiral
Still waiting for England to ring his arrival
Nigel… a lonely archival

He could've been training the stars of today
But he's shouting at MOTD’s Match of the Day
He whispers “zone marking” to his microwave
And salutes Schmeichel when he shaves

🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
Living his dream in a Premier League vial
🎶 Nigel – Nigel Nigel Nigel Nigel
Scrolling through gloves on an eBay trial
Still coaching no one, still dreaming in style
Nigel... oh Nigel...
You beautiful...
denial.

Nigel

She walks alone past the berry pines,
Old boots, same path, every time.
Grey sky’s hanging like her mood,
Cold toast, same tea, same food.

She hums “Let It Be” to the cows,
Cuts her fringe just like Paul now.
Her mum’s in Greece with a new friend,
Dad’s in Spain on a “business” weekend.

She’s got a dog named Lennon,
A cat called Ringo too.
They don’t fight, they just ignore her—
Like introverts do.

Niina oh Niina
Girl of the pine and the rain
Niina oh Niina
Your joy got lost on the train
Niina oh Niina
You talk to clouds and your plants
Niina oh Niina
You never learned how to dance

There’s one streetlamp and it flickers,
Like her hope on winter dinners.
She’s liberal, she’s loud online,
But mute at the store checkout line.

Hair like a mop in '64,
Heart like a thrift store drawer.
She dreams of Abbey Road in mud,
But slips in Finnish slush and crud.

She plays bass on air in her room,
Sings to her pets by the light of the moon.
Still waiting for someone to knock,
But it’s just the postman and he’s a bit of a jock.

Niina oh Niina
You wear Beatle boots in the snow
Niina oh Niina
Where did your childhood go?
Niina oh Niina
Your heart’s in black and white
Niina oh Niina
But the forest don’t mind your plight

"I just... I like the silence.
The cat purrs. The dog breathes.
The world spins.
And George was always my favorite."

Niina oh Niina (echo: Niina… Niina)
Still waiting for spring to begin
Niina oh Niina
With dreams stitched under your skin
Niina oh Niina
There's magic in that stare
Niina oh Niina
But no one sees you there...

Niina

And there stood Anton Pfeffer, the back-line bard,
Who wrote a soft sonnet — but passed it too hard.

We didn’t need poetry, we needed a wall.
But what we received… was our premature fall.

Joseph Švejk’s revenge – tears on the Austrian bench,
Anton Pfeffer’s back pass, a treacherous wrench.
To Klaus Lindenberger, in panic and clench —
Joseph Švejk’s revenge – tears on the Austrian bench.

Enter Michal Bílek, no mercy, no flair,
Just a penalty low, like a bureaucrat’s stare.
Thirty-first minute — remember it well,
The moment we tripped into group-stage hell.

No Krankl, no Prohaska, no legends to call,
Just Austria shrinking like paint on the wall.
Rodax looked haunted, Herzog looked pale,
Even the mascot gave up with a wail.

George Smith, the Scotsman, his whistle a dirge,
And Bílek, unblinking, began our purge.
Lindenberger dove, but too late, too wide,
As hopes for the Round of Sixteen just died.

Joseph Švejk’s revenge – tears on the Austrian bench,
That moment when faith took a merciless drench.
A nation reduced to an awkward clench —
Joseph Švejk’s revenge – tears on the Austrian bench.

From Vienna to Graz, we sat stunned in our chairs,
Clutching warm beer and muttering prayers.
While the Czechs took the field with socialist grace,
We fiddled with tactics like cream on the face.

Anton Pfeffer, forgive us if we sigh,
But your back pass still echoes in every Styrian cry.
The sun mocked us loud, in that Florentine dome,
As Italy watched — and we staggered home.

Josef Švejk's Revenge - Tears on the Austrian Bench

His voice assaults, and somehow… wins.

You pray for silence, maybe rain,
But here he comes with his refrain...

🎶 Germans number one, he shows how it’s done!
With a mic in his hand and a face like the sun.
No shame, no fear, no pitch control,
He warbles and conquers every soul.
Germans number one—your nightmare has begun. 🎶

He rhymes “moon” with “balloon”, then “heart” with “cart”,
You feel a small stroke in your brain and heart.
Yet grannies swoon and teens all cheer,
You shout “Why, God, why is he here?”

He sings of schnitzel and dreams of fame,
While every verse sounds just the same.
Still every chart he climbs with pride—
A Schlager beast, you cannot hide.

You change the station, break the dial,
But here he comes in Schlager style...

🎶 Germans number one, he shows how it’s done!
He sings like a kettle, but the damage is none.
With sparkle in eye and sequins that blind,
He’s the end of taste, yet the hope of his kind.
Germans number one—just try not to run. 🎶

Ooh baby… I serenade you…
Like a schnitzel in the sun…
I am your melody…
Your lactose-intolerant fantasy…

🎶 Germans number one, he shows how it’s done!
You beg for mercy, but he’s just begun!
He croons, he grunts, he fake-cries too,
And somehow that still charms a few.
Germans number one—Lord help us, he won. 🎶

Germans’ Number One

I walked into the diner with a dream on my plate,
Crispy, golden visions — I was feelin’ first-rate.
But then she came close, said “Try this today,”
Slapped a white swamp down and took my soul away.

I like ‘em fried, I like ‘em baked,
I even boil ‘em for old time's sake.
But something smooth and sad appeared...
A mushy horror that I feared.

NO! NO! NO WAY!
Mashed potatoes are not okay!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
That creamy doom? Just keep away!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
It’s a texture crime, a starch cliché!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
Mashed potatoes? Hell. No. Stay!

I begged for crunch, I begged for bite,
But all I got was this pale fright.
Like baby food from broken dreams,
It haunts my toast, my poutine screams.

Once I loved a girl… she mashed 'em in a bowl…
I ran. I cried. I lost control.
She said, "It’s comfort food."
I said, "That’s not food. That’s glue, dude."

NO! NO! NO WAY!
Mashed potatoes are not okay!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
Put that slop-trap far away!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
I’d rather eat my bills and pay!
NO! NO! NO WAY!
Mash your dreams, but not today!

Mashed… no-tay-toes…
Kill the vibe… close the show…
NO…
NO…
NO WAY.

Mashed NO-tatoes

I came for culture... I stayed for the spritzers...
Döbling... the hills... the wine... and my shame...

I took a tram with no direction,
Got off too soon, pure imperfection.
Google said Heuriger's this way,
I followed signs, got led astray.

White plastic chairs and fading charm,
The waiter winked—he meant me harm.
A Styrian sang, his zither cried,
I drank two litres, then I died.

Crushed like grapes beneath the boots,
Love and logic bearing no fruits.
A stranger's dog licked my despair—
But I was too drunk to care.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Let’s get drunk and drift away—
Busline 38A, okay?
Hey! Hey! Hey! Say “Prost” and lose your way—
New wine tears in the Welschriesling spray!

I tried to flirt in broken German,
Said “Ich bin traurig... und auch gern am weinen.”
She laughed, said “Are you always like this?”
I said, “Just in autumn. And when I miss...”

I miss the taste of sins uncorked,
A heart fermented, overforked.
Your lips were red from Zweigelt wine—
I drank you too, then crossed the line.

Oh Döbling nights, so sweet, so cruel...
A drunk philosopher, a romantic fool...
I danced with ghosts in knitted socks,
Then vomited behind the vineyard rocks.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Let’s get drunk and drift away—
Busline 38A, okay?
Hey! Hey! Hey! Fall in love and disobey—
Heuriger dreams turn to disarray!

Where is my scarf?
Who paid the bill?
Did I kiss a local?
Did time stand still?

Hey! Hey! Hey! Let’s get drunk and drift away—
Busline 38A, okay?
Hey! Hey! Hey! Till the wine says what you can’t say—
New wine in Vienna... fade to grey.

Unbekannter Künstler

Popular tracks