Done with all my tasks
While the clowns trade masks
Cast into a casket
Older than Damascus
It seems like today, probably tomorrow
All people do is what they have to
But never what they want to
Confined to the clock
Always in a hurry
Rushing for the door; bottleneck
Rush hour, every hour
What notion are we trying to elect?
No time for a party
No place for a break
All I see is busy feet and hurt soles
Where is the soul?
When will life become gold?