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The man 'cross the street he don't move a muscle |
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Though he's all covered in dust |
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When constitutions of granite can't save the planet |
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What's to become of us? |
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With a painted restraint I don't move a muscle |
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Though a turbine roars |
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If the bathwater's clear and my ear's underwater |
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It's a tolerant hum from the core |
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Sleep's beckoning from the depths |
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From the cracks and from the crevices |
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Join the army of ghosts, the murmurs in the mist |
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That's when the powers of observation |
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Come to the periphery town |
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And we'd carry their water |
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We don't make a sound |
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And after gaining our resignation |
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They come through the chain link fence |
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Your only enemy's panic |
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Your only chance is to start making sense |
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Sleep plunging into deeper debt |
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Inter bunkers and black minarets |
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On a geyser of ink, a morning voice faint and yet |
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And it sounds heroincredible |
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Sound that makes the headphones edible |
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Awake, affiliated and indelible |
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The man 'cross the street don't move a muscle |
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Though he's all covered in dust |
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Says constitutions of granite can't save the planet |
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What's left to captivate us? (What's to become of us?) |
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What's left to captivate us? (What's to become of us?) |
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What's left to captivate us? (What's to become of us?) |
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What's to become of us? |
