.I red mit niemand mehr, die Gedankendämmerung, es fallt ma a net
Schwer die Stille is wia a Trompeten de âi hör>
Die Moral der StraÃn hat schiache Wunden hinterlassen gescheiterte
Ideen die mi schlaflos lassen und des innerste Gewissen in mir quäln
Und dann kummt m.
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