So nice and black, Neither alive nor dead, Dennie plays the electric chair. Long hair scintillates In the light of the neon lamps; With light heart Dennie plays With the blackness of his face. The highest voltage — Dennie plays, Lower — looks for a hope to chase. Dennie plays for a thousand years, Makes his dead man’s deal, Yonder, on the prison hill. By the by do you think That only a wire can be made out of a man? Nothing of a kind! Do you know that an electric bulb Could be made out of the prisoner? On the electric chair. Everybody could be a burning scarecrow In the electric nightmare. Oh, yeah.
Сегодня осень. Холодные крыши собирают капли с тёмного неба и сбрасывают их вниз, пугая сонных ворон. Листья падают на землю.