This is the story of the bee
Whose sex is very hard to see
You cannot tell the he from the she
But she can tell, and so can he

The little bee is never still
She has no time to take the pill
And that is why, in times like these
There are so many sons of bees.

Quando il tuo da-quattro-anni-ragazzo, per S. Valentino, ti regala un libro su quanto puoi avere un carattere di merda… ecco, forse è il caso di farsi qualche domanda.

… And the night so terribly dark
and the day the light’s a spark
and the morning with the sun on my face
and the afternoon with its warm embrace
and the evening cries the tear of my heart
and this love tears me apart.

And the music plays with your hips
as no sound’s coming out of my lips
I’m no lover to commit suicide
can’t you see that you got me petrified
as inside I’m crying out your name
another day, another night’s all the same.

How can this be… how can this be real?