there is a brothel we all choose to live

keeping track of all those who'll receive

the last piece of flesh...

it's such a bless even for those who pray

naked justice will take a bow and stay to watch the final play

...like clay my insignificant touch will spread

blood-red,mixed with stiff lust

and rust

will cleanse away the very last remaining feeling...

a caring priest once told me

as quietly his hand through my zipper consoled me:

''you 'd better watch your mouth,little boy...

its profanity will cost me heaven's joy...

are you prepared to turn your cheek

to satan's horrographic ''sympathie illogique''?''...

his growing shadow engulfed my soul

i prayed to god and saints to fall

before i get a grip of my sensation

and dive into self-realisation...

from then and now on

i wrote some staff on soul-surgery

i escaped my false purgatorium

and chose to live in life's sanatorium...