It is a strange strange feeling, waking up every day, regretting all the healing, shall I ever find my way? She's got beautiful dresses, in the meanwhile I still can't sing, I am a world of dirty messes and they are for her the flowers you bring. She's the real estate in the corner of my dollhouse, I'm a doll that refuses to play, and then I wonder why you pick her, when it is I who is running away.
It is a strange strange feeling, waking up every day, living for another, shall they ever find their way? If gentle hands were a criteria, would you touch the farmer's hands, to tell the world about your 'new era', but afterward washing them is a command? But don't worry about her, she will find her way, she is who she is, not a doll that refuses to play.
It is a strange strange feeling, waking up every day, living in a lying world, shall you ever find your way? With her lined face and tooked up hair, you pretend to treat us equally but it would never be me crowned to be next heir. I guess that is the way you turn endlessly. Her face will always be painted on the mural, treaded for hunger that burns. So I turn to you, the world, is that not at all your concern?