giant whistles in my brain joyfully sing and ding

for a new applause of petals and gentile sirs bathed in golden lava

the merits of the applause are known only to the lava

who slooowly makes its way uphill

tearing with its melting powers the asphalt and the soles of the gentile's shoes

barefooted and steamy the sirs try to pry themselves from this marmalade story, they try to hide away in tall towers, that just like cookies, crumble

the cracks are too much for them

they hold each other

but alas it is too late for hugs now

so they fall

into a pile of sticky cookie crumbs

swimming for the shores

they are too far

they must stop being gentile

the must fight for their life

turn inside and turn into butterflies

fly far and high

fly fly

you gentile butterfly