Baby, one true story is not enough for being other star
Between hundred thousand another shining dreams;
Baby, rain is dancing on metallic spotty rance, maar,
Saint-P doesn’t belong to you or another sweet piece.
Baby, if you cry, cry in silence of winding old streets
Folding your hands forgotten colourful silly illusions;
Baby, shake of all worry, open strange chilling zeals
And develop new inner world of lightness in conclusion.
Baby, deceitful stories alter the right courses of lives,
Deeply offended persons incline the fatigued head;
Baby they are standing in green summer empty parks
Not agreeing passionately to a hail of icy lead.
Baby, you could crash in self-made grand continuity
Scattered papers all over your uninhabited room;
Baby, perk up you head, looking at independently,
Tearing smeared waiting for lists of better mood.