The crazed and lunatics gather behind the B
In the hidden classrooms their lust is carnivorous
And when their inner monsters reach calamity
They give birth to pseudo-intellectual ladies-like
Early in the morning they crave for a company
In the frigid cold their bodies are temperous
In quest for an eternal bodymate they refute amenity
And spread words of hate as fast and murderous
The whores and misfits warm themselves behind the B,
And they meet again, in thunder in lighting or under the rain
They share the lipstick of their lost inner visions
Before the taking of a joint and a hundred indecisions
Their neo-noir eyeliner hides their dreadful gaze,
They see charming princes in ruined humain machines
Spitting the mad love of their metropolitan nights
They believe they understood God, they read Nietzsche
And sink back into their lustful sugar daddy’s arms
Behind the department B is the house of the Borgias
Followed by an old echo of rap and rock’n’roll
They rap like the rats in their banlieues by night
Trying to catch a last look at their new slapline
And when the beats play sold-out,
They turn up to their usual life with their mouths shut
And are like the players running headless
To collect their chips from the dealer on the corner
The snakes and adders gossip behind the B
On the incensed tales of their anxiety,
They call themselves queens and mock the peasantry
Alienation is no longer a shameful malady,
Retake your subscribers and your masochistic stalkers
My scarabus wingman calls me at the back the C
He is the angel that shouts to me «come to Algiers, my bastard»
Invites me to soar from the B distant and afar
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