You told me that the morning
And that war was for sale
And that peace had its price
In gold, silver, and fine linen, woy-oh-oy
And what comes out of the mouth
That every day the road is narrower
Oh, that the street is rough
Oh, that whoever doesn't run flies
That whoever doesn't run flies
Oh, that the moon drifts away
That the moon drifts away
Oh, I ask myself and I meditate
What is the square root of myself?
You told me that the lie
And that a Valentino shoe
That a tariff fell in love
With a taxpayer in the free zone, yere-rere-re
That anesthesia went to London
That every day brings its hustle, and I explain to you
Oh, that the street is rough
Oh, that whoever doesn't run flies
That whoever doesn't run flies
Oh, that the moon drifts away
That the moon drifts away
Oh, I ask myself and I meditate
What is the square root of myself?
And that there's no favoritism with coffee
The one who brews first is the one who will drink
That Tchaikovsky was Russian and Debussy French
When the river sounds, it's that it brings water, I know
That the clubs are trenches of the societé
Where seven fit, twenty-three fit
That the night looks good for Star Trek
Hey, man, don't play with that
Oh, that the street is rough
Oh, that whoever doesn't run flies
That whoever doesn't run flies
Oh, that the moon drifts away
That the moon drifts away
Oh, I ask myself and I meditate
What is the square root of myself?