Kunze Heinz Rudolf
It's just a matter of nerves
Inventory
There were times when our girls' breasts
were no secret, no private property,
we knew everything about each other, not like today,
where you occasionally sweat on the permanent queen;
Whenever we meet, we play hide-and-seek.
Falling dice are ideal protection.
It takes us hours secretive toilets
for breathing practice and to play with a little dirt.
More and more often, groups that we like are playing,
in our full, mentally ill city.
But we forego the sight of our heroes,
because disappointment has unexpectedly made us bitter:
Have they really sunk so low that they need to give a concert here?
We can hear loud as a room the unbeatable records.
We drink our loud beer in silence.
We are now tired and we have nothing to say.
We will of course continue to vote for the SPD.
We have no reason to really to lament.
Socialism would hurt us a bit.
We are slowly reaching the balding old age,
which requires a confession for the sake of a career.
Ten half beers, and ours The flag is hanging in the wind,
Add two more and we'll piss off for the night.
We all have a bad stomach.
We all live on credit and on prescription.
We swallow pills and are pain-free, but tired,
The stuff works thoroughly, and we can feel it in bed.
There are small cold lumps on the tails,
Assigned once a night as homework ,
We wage trench warfare at midnight at the desk,
until the queen of hearts puts her skin to bed.
We see dead people and we ask ourselves the question,
How much time do we have to win still remains.
What comes next? We construct an answer
that sends a chill down our necks.
We gradually find that even family celebrations
are not as bad as we used to think.
Sympathetic words come from our lips,
We are downright charming with old ladies.
Who plays the game? We get excited and feel cold.
Once again the odds are stacked against us.
Our thoughts are always somewhere else entirely:
A castle in the snow and all traces are well covered.< br/>It's crazy to remember so early,
when we know that others don't feel the same way.
And yet, we listen to the ticking of our hearts,
in which TWENTY-THREE is in front of the decimal point.
Mick Franke: acoustic guitar
HRK: vocals, piano, harmonica

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