Antland

Waves spit on my memories
and flies lick remains like salt on a cliff
swallowing desolation's wan stains
and skies without any prayin'.
You have generated just this:
eyes which float on cages and black tones,
settlin' on to paltry customs
while humans are going to dance.
Now you're just the king of the silly ones...
crown slips out of your head as if it were snow.
Now you're just the king of the losers
and your sceptre gives in without a lament.
Frenzied worker ants all lined up
bow in front of ghosts and gods,
heavily made-up Golems
smiling from rotating chariots.
But a shadow come in
breaking through the wall of truth
while that fire is eating its flesh
passing through roads and nerves.
Now you're just the king of the foolish ones...
crown slips out of your head as if it were snow.
Well, you're just the king of the wretched
and your sceptrer gives in without a lament.