When I worked as a wolf, I'm not howlin' the moon.
Every day I woke up trying to find the truth.
The war always was here: for the crosses, for the stars and the air.
In this drunk government each good word is like lie,
They sing about the souls, but that souls cannot fly.
But as luck, but as luck, but as luck this my life is unfair.
In her own warm hell my girlfriend had a friend,
But there wasn't the imps, but there wasn't the flame -
There was fear of the dark and the meeting with unknown stranger.
He is high, he is cruel, he is Midnight maniac,
He has twelve stolen names cutted from paper stacks.
After sunset he's near on the streets, and he's very dangerous.
Yesterday I sawed rats (St. Sebastian's disease),
And they starting first feast with the flame in the teeth:
Everyone gets the cross 'cause from the old life all become boring.
But today they all drink and not howlin' the moon,
The feast during the disease, but I can't get the truth.
And I run saving life, but inside exulting paranoia.