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	I CAN DO A BETTER 600 EURO HAIRCUT WITH MY ASSHOLE We're so fed up with your self-pity, the shit you had to suffer. There's leaks and moles everywhere you look! Dirty campaigning here! A conspiracy there! Disagreement equals treason or whatever lets you sleep at night. And as we're tumblin' towards the ballot boxes. They praise their posh messiah. You're an upstart slim fit wanker with a grave robber's morale. You're a scammer, a fuckin' golddigger. Wouldn't piss on you, you'd be on fire. So listen up: We're done with your shit. And with your grin carved in stone. You're an upstart slim fit wanker with a grave robber's morale. You're a scammer, a fuckin' golddigger. Wouldn't piss on you, you'd be on fire. A country dyed with the coldest of colors. And a herd of blind disciples follow your lead. Crazy old bats, big business and some loose cannons applaud you as they watch you salt the earth. There's hills to be climbed. There's asses to be kissed. There's money to be made. Investors to be pleased. There's hot air to be released. And sacrifices to be made. Also, we hate your fucking face. BLACK GLOVES These bloodshot eyes stare back, nothing's left to gain. He's paralyzed. But that's the least of his concerns. Starts to feel the cold breath on the back of his neck. Flash of the blade brings back memories of Rome. That ship has sailed. Hours ago he signed the paper. A top notch deal. He would thank him later. Starts to feel the cold breath on the back of his neck. Flash of the blade brings back memories of Rome. That ship has sailed. We've got a live one here. Put pressure on the wound. Flickering lights mixing up with blurry visions. Mouth is so dry, couldn't even scream. Flickering lights mixing up with switchblade visions. Pulse is so weak, breathing through tubes. Still he feels the cold breath on the back of his neck. That ship has sailed. MY SMILE IS A GRIN Actually, I seem to be a nice guy, the kind that's humble and polite. With a home in the suburbs, a perfect neighbor, a loving wife and some great kids. At the office my boss has been knockin' on my shoulder for at least 2 years. If he ever knew what's goin' on in my mind. At night while everyone is sleeping I sneak downstairs and turn my tablet on. And it's really not about the target. If I get blocked tonight I just move on. If you're struggling with depression I'll goad you to your early grave. I'm a monster hiding in darkness. Swatting or doxxing on my prey. I'm invisible, feeding on attention. I put you in your place. At night when everyone is sleeping Turning social media into a locker room. Towel-snapping, mysogyny and insults. Seeping from my tablet into your life. It's people like us against people like you. From the basement-dwellers to lawyers and docs. We force our hate right down your throat until you life is falling apart. THIS ONE'S ON ME A bright light stunned my eyes. A blast rang through my ears. So I could never hear their screams. With all this blood around me I moved forward on all fours to leave this slaughterhouse behind. I see the lights on a distant shore. I can feel the breeze soothing this burnt skin. I can hear the sound of machine gun fire. Reached the beach in no time, six thousand dollars in exchange for some future options not as bleak as this. I can't see no light, it's all dark in here. I can't feel my legs, stuck inside this box. Memories keep haunting me, watched you as you went to the bottom of the sea. This one's on me. EIGHT MILLION SHITHEADS CAN'T BE WRONG Put the shutters down, turn your cellphone off. We're gonna make some money. Big crises - big money! Chubby Tabloid's in, says he's keeping them busy with big letters and exclamation marks. He's making up some stories about the welfare scum or those refugees are way too expensive? Cut the budget, bend the law. We found some slick bastard who will fit in these suits. We'll make him their saviour, that sorta thing. This is an emotional wasteland. It makes your heart piss its pants. Why not embed all these saucy tv-journalists like we did with the tabloid ones? Our Sponsors will agree. We run this place. This is an emotional wasteland. You know the drill. It makes your heart piss its pants. Eight million assholes can't be wrong.

	EX PARROT Like crawling on broken glass she's making her way back home. Through the ashes of a future past. Tared and feathered for the whole village to see. She's wearing her grudge like a medal. Can't stare at these hollow eyes anymore. Trapped in a flooded dark room. And she's choking on that dream. A wet match unable to ignite. She knows dying is thirsty work. Evil lurks behind these doors. Endless days in the right angle. Raging seas of efficiency. She's sitting here like patience on a monument. Decides to put it upside down. For better or worse. If you've been there you know the score. FRAUDSTER Nostalgia shirts and skinny pants of bands I never knew. Liked the design, bought on summer sale. I'm wondering what plugs to wear. Can't figure out why corporate shit still sucks. Never got a tweed about that. Ain't got a clue why they call me fraud. To me those boots look pretty neat. With finest products my beard's well groomed. My mind is pure and gentrified. I'm so in love with irony. Weaseling through narcissism. Can't figure out why my foodblog sucks. Never got a tweed about that. It's amazing what craft beer does to guilt. Politic's no agenda of mine. It has never been. My vegan diet twice a month. WE DON'T LIKE YOU, BUT CAN WE BLAME YOU? I care so much 'bout caring so little. WE DON'T LIKE YOU, BUT CAN WE BLAME YOU? "You're all hamsters", spray-painted on a wall. WE DON'T BLAME YOU, BUT THIS ONE LIKES YOU. EVERYTHING STICKS The air is shimmerin' in the heat. Ice cubes can't keep a decent drink cold. Car tires squealin', followed by screams. Their nerves were all on edge. The asphalt's cracked wide open Like the skull they stare upon. Their nerves were all on edge. These streets are paved with bones. Blood's boiling. There's outbursts. And fights. A scent of violence in the air tonight. Medication fails. Brain malfunction. He's screamin' at the top of his lungs. She's at the end of her tether. And she is pacing the floor. She is all worked up. He's all wired up. So where's my dark grey sky? Where is my thunder roar? Never ever let 'em know you're scared.

	PAPERS AND WAITING Escaped from certain death. Got shot, beaten and robbed. Watched his loved ones blown to bits. The borders had been closed. A sheer endless odyssey for the prospects of a better life. The stench of burning flesh still lingers in his nose. The screams of pain still in his head. A tin container now is home for all he knows. Holding on to a faded photograph. This is a country of papers and waiting. This is a country of speeches and strife. This is a country of malice and complacency. They're downscaled to crises, masses and waves. The stench of burning flesh still lingers in his nose. The screams of pain still in his head. A tin container now is home for all he knows. A battered suitcase under the bed. He used to love the sea. The smell of salt and fish and childhood memories. He used to love the sea. Childish illusions of a better place beyond. He used to love the sea. THAT VERY LAST STEP Feels like you haven't slept for years. Live your life through endless blurry days. You were on top of the world. And there's no pill no drug no remedy that helps. And you may scream till you're blue in the face. You're about to step in the wrong pile of shit. You've got a bone to pick with the rest of the world. Before you finally go to sleep. It pulled the rug out from under your feet. He was acting so damn proud, was talkin' way too loud. Wanted to rip his tongue out, so the pain would stop. On second thought, this won't pass in court. And you may scream till you're blue in the face. The 16 dead men on your chest won't let you breathe. You've got a bone to pick with the rest of the world. Before you finally go to sleep. Sometimes it does hurt when you smile. Sometimes you push too hard, you act too smart. The blue light of the screen reminds you of home. There's no safe haven, your future's in stainless steel. And you may scream till you're blue in the face. Cough out your lungs take that very last step. You've got a bone to pick with the rest of the world. Before you finally go to sleep. That very last step.

	HEADLIGHTS AND BLACK SPOTS Packed his bag, left an envelope and hit the road. Wind is rising, white noise roar through the darkest night. Headlights chase away the black spots, black spots of his life. He turns the radio off. The broken pieces of his past. Figured out how to put 'em together. Saw the picture an' gave it a shot. A one-time-chance to get even with this cold, numb hell he made of his life. Of all the damn-weird-situations this one's damn weird big time. He grinned "This is your lucky day." For once he got lucky. Rewind! The night reeks of blood and booze. Sirens wailing in the distance. A back-alley-opportunity. The .45's kickin' like a mule. Guy's goin' down like a ton of coal. Life fades, Hell awaits. Off the city limits, into the shadows. Fugitive. You ask for a license, it could get nasty, officer. Headlights chase away the black spots, black spots of his life. CELLOPHANE WAR Steam's rising from the gutters. Looks like the city will sleep tonight. Everything's so tidy, so scary. Everything's wrapped in cellophane. We leave a smelly trace, shoveling shit against the tide. These houses are scarcely breathing and they hardly shed a tear. One more drink before the war. The truce is over. The 15 minute fames become recurring nightmares. A dance of headless chickens, wrapped up in cellophane. We leave a smelly trace, shoveling shit against the tide. "How come there's so much rage?" Kneedeep in discontent, filled up and fully charged. The truce is over. BRUCE'D And as he stumbled out of the dark, bruises all over and clothes torn. The people stared, then looked the other way. Just another bum - there you got your explanation. A lowlife deadbeat stealin' our air to breathe. And nevermind the bag he's clingin' onto. The car is wrecked like a waterproof plan. He never asked for the darkness. The darkness chose him. And like everything else it came with a price. Father said "you can't outrun your faith." But sure as hell you gotta try. Just another bum - there you got your explanation. A lowlife deadbeat stealin' our air to breathe. Nevermind the life he's clingin' onto. And the fear of darkness is all around. This is not your fault. There's something inside him, wants to get out and leave him as an empty shell. Stuff you see in your worst nightmares. HARLAN Take me to this place, Coe Ridge Colony, Kentucky 1866, don't ask no questions, don't ask. Or take this rope, courtesy from good ol' me, make some really nice knot and find yourself some tree. People, they suck, they suck all the time – and that's a fact! Most of 'em they really do. "Do they?", one might ask. "They just do what they're supposed to do." You got his right, them folks just do what they're supposed to do, but… SHITSTORM PROPHETS It's like a factory that moans and creaks. Its steel walls they seem to shake. Its roof bends towards the floor where too much blood's been spilled. There's nothing like the power in grey suits. The joy you had has turned to ashes in your mouth. And as the years go by. All the promises we'd never keep. Stare at the coast, watch the ships disappear. With so many things left to burn. Embrace yourself. You've come a long way. And friends are more than just one click away. And as the years go by. All the promises we'd never keep. There is no coast. There's no ocean here. So what's your poison? Make sure your cup's filled up. The sun is rising, not a single storms in sight. These nights they give you the business and sleep comes hard these days for a walking compromise. SHE WAS A COP The knock on the door, as loud as a shot. This plain clothes cop so tall he stood. He's seen him before, always gave him the creeps. always gave me the creeps. "I have to tell you something, Mr. Whatsyourgoddamnedname ..." And what's comin' next, felt like bein' hit by a train ... "It's about your wife ..." She was a cop, brave and just a lil bit crooked. She carried a gun on the shooting range we sure had some fun. Next thing he knew this cop went down. Unconcious he lay there, so he took his gun. She owned my heart, had some brains and in her uniform she looked so hot. Then he learned why his wife was dead. She just took her gun and ate it for a snack. Internal Affairs scum had given her hell. I asked some questions and soon I figured out. Didn't give a fuck who was who, I 'll kill 'em all. What's comin' next, please, close your eyes. It's gettin' ugly now. STILLBORN AGAIN We know you're desperate 'cause your life didn't work out the way it was meant to be. So you start looking for the next best answer there is to function as a filler for all those blanks or something crippled or broken. And that's when we're entering the game. Our sales are rising, maximum turnover. Take off your glasses, look concerned. Expanding markets. Consciousness Industry. We got rid off the whacky guru-shit so that finally everyone can dance to this. If less is more maybe nothing is everything. So now the paint's off. With mindstyle products, maximum turnover. Consumer empathy, emotional design. Expanding markets. Tyranny of Intimacy. There's a brand new cage , it's the hottest shit there is. Become an iGod and buy our snake-oil, or our salvation-app. This is a new dark age and the latest craze there is Our business model deals hardly with complaints. Sales are exploding. iSLAUGHTER 4.0 the flag was black. it was hoisted on a pole left side of the old dead apple tree. local nihilists were amused and all the cops were confused. the writer ... spat on his hands. body was tense, joints intact. hours of bustin' rocks worked out. the body was tense! the gun was loaded, kevlar was new and ammo he had quite a few. but this was plan b. with guns one can't slit throats and that's what he wanted to do. the writer loved his knife, he called it his cutting-app. .99 cents up your goddarn ass. thanks payola, that is no big deal. just click and click and back to home. home is where he's headin' to. and then when he left town his rearview mirror was just red. those i's ... those i's just got on his bad side. so separate the dot from the i. DOOMSDAY DEVICE If hate was people I would be China. I'm so pissed and sick of being poked upon. And in his head he decorates the nicest warheads, sugar coats 'em for the holidays. But there's no sweet score playin' in the background. I quit watching zombie flicks since they moved in next door. And haunt the streets with their large phones. So in my head lantern stakes are popping out everywhere while duct covers disappear. Like some crazy dictator in a bad need of a haircut. All the doomsday devices are in private collectors hands. The diary of some suicide machine leaves a stale taste in your mouth. The survivors envy the dead. And through the holes in my pockets coins and lighters just slip away. They soothe only your clenched fists. Only place you're going is nowhere. EVIL vs. BADDIE Can't undo all bad things i did. And bad things he did. This evil man with blood on his hands. He's been suffering the worst. So now he's on his way to hunt him down. To hunt me down! To hunt him down! On the sill, moving on all fours. This evil man is on his back. 10 floors up means one long way down. Seems like his time is up. I'm sick of running, and evil runs fast. Leaving this world, never digged this life. Off he goes, that's one hell of a flight. No pictures of his past he has to face. A smile on my lips, I'm done with this mess. Now this one baddie can rest in peace. LOSING HAND This Man had met disaster first time he saw the light. Being born onto the wrong page of one helluva bad written book. The man never understood his fate. His life - just another losing hand. Was he floating? Was he drowning? Death was just the last card to be played. How does it feel to be the one ... the one holding the losing hand. How does it feel to be on God's Shitlist number 12? How does it feel to be the one... the one who's lost it all. How does this feel? Bad ways lead to a bad end, some suit who loved the law once said. "There ain't no thing as a good end" And I knew he was right. This man is good in waiting. And waiting is what he does best. He was just asking himself, whose hand held the last card.