Letra de Script of a dead poet

The Coffee Black and Nearly Cold
And I Look Back While Hours Pass By
A Sheet of Paper On the Table Torn to Shreds
If You Are Able to Solve the Puzzle, Try
It´s My Last Script That You May Hold
Or Wipe Away When the Bar Has Closed
My Last Remains Here in Your Hands and in the End
What I Was Writing For, I Just Don´t Know
Don´t Know

How Many Times to Make Youy Understand
Or Was It For the Triumph of Applauding Hands
How Many Words I Had to Spell and All the Stories I Would Tell
For the Short and Orgiastic Turn When´d You Say: Well

What Were They For, These Black Inked Dreams
A Guaranty That I Was Wise
And So Called Gods Define An Entrance For Eternal Life
Into a Masterpeace of Mine
All I Wanted to Be
Was Extraordinary, Extraordinary
And Maybe I Was Wrong
How Many People Have I Killed
With My Suicidal Songs