You look so tired, unhappy,
Bring down the government,
They don't, they don't speak for us...
I feel like we've died. And gone to heaven. Only we had to climb up.
J’attends vos doigts purs sur ma face,
Pareils à des anges de glace,
J’attends qu’ils mouillent mes regards,
L’herbe morte de mes regards,
Où tant d’agneaux las sont épars!
And our bodies are tired, our shadows will dance.
— All right, mate. You got any money?
— Yeah.
— What?
— Yes, I've got money.
— Give it to me then.
— Why?
— 'Cause I'll fuckin' kill you if you don't.
— Does that usually work, does it? To most people, the threat of death is worse than giving you money, but... Or they're worried you'll hurt their family or... I haven't got any family. I'm not gonna go into it, but I don't care about anything anymore. I'm not giving you any money.
— Are you mental?
— No, I'm just tired of doing things I don't wanna do, and we always have a choice. And if I've read this right, my choice is either violence or hand over my money peacefully to two useless little cunts.
— Are you mad?
— No. Fuck off! Okay? Just fuck off.
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