I am very, very sick.

I don't know where this pain comes from.

Whether it's the wind whistling

Over an empty and deserted field,

Or it's like a grove in September

The alcohol is pouring down on my brain.

My head is flapping its ears

Like a bird's wings.

She's got her legs around my neck

I can't stand it anymore.

Black man,

Black man, black man,

Black man

He sits on my bed,

Black man

Keeps me up all night

Black man

Sticks his finger in a nasty book

And, bellowing at me,

Like a dead monk,

Reading me the life

of some rascal and a hobo,

and frightens my soul.

Black man

Black, black...