The Rust That I Feed

Like Apollinaire - with soft words I though, what I overcarres you... But I've wrapped around my hand Barbed wire - bloody, long... And even so I took my boots off I was smelling of my thoughts Thoughts crooked like a any dick Thoughts like rainy, heavy clouds... And Benedict's strong fist Hanging over sleepy head I was looking in his eyes Can he hear your swan-song ??? Let the night carry your singing Up your ears !!! it is worth !!! Let Amadeus turns in his grave Let him curse - it's not his note... The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words The man who carried the Christ He's got a knife in his hand When he will mature - he'll strike You know, I know - I deserve The night carry your song Up your ears - it is worth!!! Julius turns in his grave Let him curse - that's not his words... The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words The rust that I feed, that I grow Resistant for any words...