The seagulls are screaming
On the heart of this city
From this infinite torment
I have an existential mess
But now we all agree it's normal
There's an illegal crowd of people
Who drink up the present in one gulp
And don't smell the scents, don't listen to reason
Don't believe in anything anymore
And who knows if love is born
Among bombs and gin tonics
Or if clear-headed people wait for better times to come
But I really don't know who to ask
I don't know what to think
Because thinking now is as difficult as breathing
It's easier to drink, because at the bottom of the glass
There are still those who find something to sing about
We are all mismatched, torn, and wet socks
But convinced that it's the others who are wrong
But I really don't know who to ask
But by the end of the century
But by the end of the century