One, two, three, four
Last week I was the mayor's projectionist
I projected for him many films of mountains
He took his right hand straight between his legs
And stroked himself until he bled
I did not complain
The pay was good and I slept well
No dreams
Our mayor hid his loneliness well
When he died, we had the rain
The mothers cried, the daughters waved
Last week I was the mayor's projectionist
I projected for him many films of mountains
He took his right hand straight between his legs
And stroked himself until he bled
I did not complain
The pay was good and I slept well
No dreams
Our mayor hid his loneliness well
When he died, we had the rain
The mothers cried, the daughters waved
Comments (0)
The minimum comment length is 50 characters.