Song: The city

High smoke pipes, running gray clouds
We will indicate the approach of the cold winds,
Dance of the solar rays in the spider web of wires
Over the tin roofs of dilapidated houses.

Go towards coloured shop-Windows,
Flying past expensive limousines,
In women rush with burning eyes,
Cold hearts, Golden hair.

Stars in the sky a little, but it does not matter.
Here almost every house has its own, and not one.
Electricity, gas, telephone, water -
Communal Paradise without the hassle and worries.