Imagine the starry eyed audience chasing us through (the cold slop of) reality

exhibited as mannequins (in a menage a trois), our design would be their wounds

we would never follow the script, never pass them but a fake smile

and every movement would be motley, dispelled from morals



And in the sky there would never be any trace of angels

the virginal air would be vaguely transparent

yet it would always be somewhat bright

the wind would carry us

(through enormous roars of enthusiastic applause)



ye would herald the age of immorality, vividly,

ye would bequeth me the most precious jewellery

ye seem like such lovely girls, in a most sinful limbo of dreams;

we should be an oblique part of the opaque scene...



And in the sky there would never be any trace of angels

the virginal air would be vaguely transparent

yet it would always be somewhat bright

the wind would carry us

(through enormous roars of enthusiastic applause)