On that stretch of land, there's a grotesque man made of sand:
you speak to his eyes, and wait by your mouth.
In the deepest ocean, he sweep sewages, and hunt the reefs --
he's up here today.
You'd run if he was alive, you'd scream if he was alive,
but look at him, he's adulterated, there's no shine,
there's no flesh and his blabber's contaminated.
You come through the cables, triangle rods, nautical miles;
because of that, all birds and fishes, they respect you.
(They respect you because they fear you.)
You've found yourself a solution for your illness,
sodas for sourness, pastels for taste;
you've got yourself what you wanted.
And I know life's boring in this polystyrene world
(spoiling all the blue fields and clear waters).
And I know that there's nothing I can do.
So come with photographs and photograph me,
smile with your babe and include me.
