Kalter Arsch Mit Schneegestöber

The wind throws snow in my face.
It's probably as blue as I am.
And we write clever sayings on the cars in the snow layer.
They call all that entertainment what we consider boredom.
And they diligently hit lines.
Until no one misses what finally wants to become truth.
What finally must become truth.
And that's where I depart.
Fourteen ninety-five please.
And this is not a bike path.
This is all they know.
And all they want to know.
No more envy.
On this nightmare on earth.
They have already trampled my ass a thousand times.
There are too many.
And for every one I get, two others are freed.
I ask the question where you are.
I want to know where you are now.