Mamma I think I just might have met my match
I'm lying here in the dirt - a bunch of artifacts
Ghost stations coming alive as my pulse weakens
And I am not afraid to die
Born 1961 just like you
One hundred fifty five thousand metres - neither straight not true
Concrete to the left on me, flowers to my rights
These was the best of times
It was my austere demeanor defined the age
Next to me the green world greener and the grey more grey
The old man came, said, destroy this symbolism
Welcome to my funeral West Berlin
You would have guessed my name by now
My chagrin
These was the best of times
Oh Hansa, my lover, where will your gaze fall now?
Combat Groups of the Working Classes, wherefore will you crowd?
Western hedonists mourn my passing daily
These were the best of times
Inanimate I know I am and I will remain
Cinderblock souvenirs, sold with candy cane
Infiltrating the cabinets of the Western Union
With a promise of better times
