Thank you.The misery of a room in London, the smog of money, already big, was thrown away.His mother in the vinyl, in the memory, old, broken bourgeoisie.Turn the words upside down and reverse the meaning to the spit, looking for another poetry.And for her, who shot him and shouted at him, don't leave me, no, don't leave me, my life.And don't be afraid, don't be afraid, my leg hurts, you know, the lights of Marseille never arrive.And don't be afraid, don't be afraid, my leg hurts, you know, the lights of Marseille never arrive.And don't be afraid, don't be afraid, my leg hurts, you know, the lights of Marseille never arrive.Portuguese, English and many others, birds of prey, chosen as companions.That desire to annihilate oneself and not to give oneself, and enough, enough poetry.And to want to hurt yourself to the point of ending up a merchant of weapons, between Egypt and madness.And a big black, like a hospital to wait, and then the leg and the agony.And don't be afraid, don't be afraid, my leg hurts, you know, the lights of Marseille never arrive.I saw everything and what do I know, I gave up, I said no, I remember badly what name I have.Arthur Rambeau, Arthur Rambeau, Arthur Rambeau, Arthur Rambeau.Thank you.