|
And it's been forty days |
|
I've tried forty ways |
|
You will never quite leave your sins behind |
|
They'll haunt you, taunt you until the day you die |
|
You will never really go. |
|
You think about it much but you need to know how the story ends, so you sit around, even though you should just go |
|
Tell your friends what you have heard, show them all the lies unlearned |
|
And when you really go, you will really know you were never meant for mirth |
|
What's it worth? |
|
If we're going to break it down with any logic, it's absurd |
|
And no matter where we go, we are not alone |
|
When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
|
What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
|
And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
|
And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |
|
I've tasted seven sins, so they won't let me in |
|
I knock knock knock until my knuckles are bruised and raw |
|
Stuck in the middle with my blood in a puddle on the floor |
|
We made our beds, we'll judge ourselves |
|
And only then and there will we disappear to our final resting place |
|
What a waste! |
|
So many decent people at the gates |
|
And no matter where we go, we are not alone |
|
When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
|
What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
|
And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
|
And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |
|
And no matter who you know, you will be alone |
|
When the silence turns to cries of "Why?" |
|
What a way to begin: we inherit sin |
|
And nobody's going to quench your thirst when the well runs dry, the well runs dry |
|
And nobody's going to hold your hand on the day you die |
