The son of the aluminium industrialist travels as far as he can get
eating, drinking, fucking and injecting
It isn’t the father’s shadow, it’s your own
 
He realizes that airplanes are made of aluminium
            and stops flying
He learns that frying pans are not made of steel
            and starts eating raw food
When he discovers gleaming metal inside of a juice package
            he starts pressing his morning juice himself
The oranges of the nearby fields are not enough for that thirst
                        not even the whole village’s
 
Towards the place where aluminium foundry
            boils and gacks
                        farts, gives a hard time
 
But don’t turn your back
it won’t be fatal