The moon is hanging in the purple sky 
 The baby's sleeping while its mother sighs
 Talking 'bout the rich folks
 Rich folks have the same jokes 
 And they park in basic places. 

 The priest is preaching from a shallow grave 
 He counts his money, then he paints you saved
 Talking to the young folks 
 Young folks share the same jokes
 But they meet in older places. 

 So don't tell me about your success
 Not your recipes for my happiness
 Smoke in bed
 I never could digest
 Those illusions you claim to have going.

 The sun is shining, as it's always done 
 Coffin dust is the fate of everyone
 Talking 'bout the rich folks
 The poor create the rich hoax 
 And only late breast-fed fools believe it. 

 So don't tell me about your success
 Not your recipes for my happiness
 Smoke in bed
 I never could digest
 Those illusions you claim to have going.