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At first I saw them |
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In the bright morning light |
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A milestone on their shoulders |
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A horse at their side |
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A horse they came over |
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From the land of human rights |
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At the corner they were waiting |
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For a winner of their size |
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Nut the managers were taking over |
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The profession of disguise |
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And they went into a rainbow |
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And they lived there for many years |
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Till one day they tried to go |
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But burning was their gear |
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Are you waiting for the take-off |
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Are you waiting for the show |
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No winner will be coming |
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You really should know |
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Neo-Nazi doom advisors sticking in the mud |
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While Hindustanian horses refuse a haircut |
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Windswept children running wild on the land |
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Lonely tele-typers ticking in Tschaikowsky's tent |
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Pig-pink-coloured ministers are ready to drop |
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They cut down all the flowers on the way to the top |
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While frogmen encircle the Zig-Zag Cinema |
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And salvation's sisters enter the Turkish Opera |
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Are you waiting for the take-off |
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Are you waiting for the show |
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No winner will be coming |
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You really should know |
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Pudding-face publicity promoters call |
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For a sign on the invisible wall |
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While prophets drive past on compressed air |
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And caravans of cameras do not care |
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The boomerang battery bands-man on his sphinx-like bike |
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Is mostly from Saturday to Sunday on strike |
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While formulas go to pieces close to the ground |
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On their way down the hill all the years 'round |
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Later I saw them |
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In a rusty limousine |
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A guitar on their shoulder |
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To leave the golden mean |
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Where the cleric is a clown |
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And the colours are clean |
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At the circus they were waiting |
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For a splendid slot machine |
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Which could turn wine into water |
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And reality into a dream |
