Curettage
Das Ich Lyrics
Curettage Lyrics
Curettage by Das Ich
Die Schenkel lose im Eisenring.
Der Kopf verstömt und ohne Dauer, als ob sie rief:
Gib, gib, ich gurgle deine Schauer bis in mein Tief.
Der Leib noch stark von wenig Aether und wirft sich zu:
Nach uns die Sintflut und das Später nur du, nur du ...
Die Wände fallen, Tisch und Stühle sind alle voll von Wesen, krank
Nach Blutung, lechzendem Dewühle und einem nahen Untergang.
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