Besedila: Cousteau. Sirena. No Medication.

Patience,
hasty
You'll race off the taste of
These precious times
A scattered thing
Wont pay you no mind

Tell me,
slowly
They were the reasons
That was the war
The kind of hurt
Don't hurt you no more

Cos its easy
You're leaving no feeling
Just remnants of revealing
Fragments of the truth
And its allright
If its all run by crazies
There's small consolation
There's no medication
For all of your blues?

Hungry,
thirstin'
At a table that's bursting
A privelaged haul
Impressive things
Don't take you no more

Loaded,
shipwrecked
A cigarette,
delicate
Like a lighted fuse
A sullen thing
A furious ruse