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It's a lonesome saturday night,
and the midtown is full of pigs,
but sometimes they forget that
cities are earthy caves,
where a pair of butchers awaits.
Greedy and perverted, a piggy walks with his mates
they go together across the street, maybe to cheat, maybe to fit.
Suicide and carnage are fine,
but pride does not escape the line.
The beat of the music makes a march.
following themselves, the pigs eat and celebrate
sometimes is easy to emulate.
Night starts with the moon
blessing and regretting the faces
of those who came.
It's their own blame.
Day light is not welcome after the six.
Neither a ray can be forgot,
just the weak and bastard light from a pole is adopted
and it remain shining and cheating,
until end of the pageantry
The pigs are filthy,
parading their bodies
embellished with faux pearls.
none remember of them before.
Every funky society,
every modish bar,
is fully smelly.
I can say:
Be cool is just a common way.
They want money,
and want the same as me,
a fine lonely death,
in the finest house they get.
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