Twenty-first. Night. Monday.
Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
Some good-for-nothing who knows why
Made up the tale that love exists on earth.
People believe it, maybe from laziness
Or boredom, and live accordingly:
They wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting,
And when they sing, they sing about love.
But the secret reveals itself to some,
And on them silence settles down…
I found this out by accident
And now it seems I’m sick all the time.