and

they are too sick to tell you a coherent story
they often play flute in the shade of passing freight trains for fun and for relaxation
they barely pretend that they know who they are and remember their names
they try to subdue angels throwing nail parings and cut hair at the shining faces
but the angels refuse to give in and kick them with legs which grow out of the wings every moment
along with popular songs and the news the cries reach the remotest stars very fast
celestial taxi drivers lost and confused without any chance of getting a passenger
can’t forget about the prophesying frogs in the mud of primordial ponds
they are too sick to tell you a coherent story