Sundays are dirty

Today

The world seems gone

The city is stiff

The phone is dead

There’s no music wheresoever

Sundays are dirty

Mozart comes out from my living room

I impress this moment in my mind

My beautiful and very young lady

Is waiting not far away

But my lazyness lays closer

I now feel so close to perfection

Mozart was a rockstar

Even Jesus was a rockstar

My girl she’s a rockstar

Unfortunately I’ll need to make her cry

There’s nothing amazing about

Mundane social gatherings

Nothing that melancholy

Couldn’t properly substitute.