Algebra Suicide - Heat Wave | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• Algebra Suicide
• Heat Wave

Sunday, is a killer
I want a festive time, a darling illness
Hands playing staccato violin
While the theme from Psycho fills the room
Instead, the day is as vacant, as an infant's dumb stare
In Mexico, the toreadors are having their day
Torturing ''bulls'' that would rather be sleeping.
But here the only things being tortured are the ''lawns'',
''wet down by their owners'', till soggy and numb
Yesterday ,while shopping, I saw three men on crutches
Buying goulashes for the women they loved
But today the only thing I hear are the ethnics outside
They're walking to church to bless baskets of eggs
Immobile things that will smell bad with time
In this heat, this humidity, that has even closed down even the stripper joints
It sad to consider how much sweat is.. wasted today
Produced, by our own simple breathing
Even sadder is when the night turns so arid
Nothing can shimmy
Nothing can dance