Manheim; rainy Saturday with no money nor friend,  only Tequila can end the boredom.  Try to reach London for a pocket of hope;  we're children, we grope in the dark.  Hugh spends his last Mark on coffee and cheese...  I feel just like a refugee...  Rathaus-keepers and traffic police,  middle-aged maids with rotting teeth  industrial magazines and old Sunday Times;  reading material/bleeding lines.  What are we doing here?  Memorial manace, eager for revenge,  has begun to bend our minds.  Shower-curtain imperative in the presence of acid;  now, feeling placid is death.  I try to hold my breath as the P.A. comes down...  here we all are in Ktown!  The Big Wheel never fails to grind around;  it drags me up/drags me down  Seven sentenses wonder 'Can this be real,  or am I become a performing seal?'  Why are we dying here?  I walk the streets alone, try to find a sign of love,  I've crushed the plaster-bone in the freaky clubs,  I have bit the fruit  but all I live for is to play  and I'm tired of the nights and the days  of airports, taxis and motorway showers,  grooping for a key in the afterhours.  David takes to travelling in the van,  He knows that we all can understand;  we're at the mercy of the Kosmos Tour,  making a pilgrimage to the German Lourdes...  but we're still crippled here.  Cathedrals spiral skywards, I think I'm getting vertigo,  I think I don't know what is real.  On a more sudden spotlight, one more madness is over...  I must not show a sign of fear.  Words echo round my ears, I think I'm going to laugh...  think I'll just go and take a bath, Guess I'll wash my clothes,  don't you know I'll grow to go and make my name,  maybe a servant in the Fame game;  stake my sane and rest my life on the line...  Now lay me asunder and rend my mind;  at the fall of the curtain let this be my ghost...