The moon is hanging
In the purple sky
The baby's sleeping
While its mother sighs
Talking about the rich folks
Rich folks have the same jokes
And they park in basic places

The priest is preaching
From a shallow grave
He counts his money
Then he paints you saved
Talking to the young folks
Young folks share the same jokes
But they'd meet in older places

So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed, I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going

The sun is shining
As it's always done
Coffin dust is the fate of every one
Talking about the rich folks
The poor create the rich hoax
And only late breast-fed fools believe it

So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed, I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going