Am să-mi contruiesc o căsuţă din lemn, pe raftul unei biblioteci. Într-un colţ, am să cultiv o plantaţie de ceai. Am să trăiesc viaţa unui artist şi am să mor nebună. Sau strivită de vreo carte, dacă aşa doreşte scriitorul.
Take all your overgrown infants away somewhere And build them a home, a little place of their own. The Fletcher Memorial Home for Incurable Tyrants and Kings.
And they can appear to themselves every day On closed circuit T.V. To make sure they're still real. It's the only connection they feel. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig, Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, and Paisly, "Hello Maggie!" Mr. Brezhnev and party. "Scusi dov'è il bar?" The ghost of McCarthy, The memories of Nixon. "Who's the bald chap?" "Good-bye!" And now, adding colour, a group of anonymous latin- American meat packing glitterati.
Did they expect us to treat them with any respect? They can polish their medals and sharpen their Smiles, and amuse themselves playing games for awhile. Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead.
Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye With their favorite toys They'll be good girls and boys In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial Wasters of life and limb.
Is everyone in? Are you having a nice time? Now the final solution can be applied.