|
Sirens ring through all the radios, |
|
Stars disppear in the clear, |
|
and the neighbors on the rooftops. |
|
Panic sweeps through all religion |
|
a billion odd years of leisure |
|
and invention make me hope. |
|
|
|
I'm running out of lucky stars to count on. |
|
I'm running out |
|
I'm running out of lucky stars to count on. |
|
I'm running out |
|
|
|
Cars stop dead without a reason |
|
and sighs in the sky say |
|
"We need a chage of season, now." |
|
Why they're here? |
|
Well, No One can say. |
|
Maybe They're here with the cure, |
|
or to end the Great Debate. |
|
|
|
Sirens ring through all the radios, |
|
Stars disppear in the clear, |
|
and the neighbors on the rooftops. |
|
|
|
I'm running out of lucky stars to count on. |
|
I'm running out |
|
I'm running out of lucky stars to count on. |
|
I'm running out |
|
|
|
Take me flying. |
|
Take me flying now. |
|
Take me flying. |
|
Take me high. |
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Let it out. |
|
Let it out now. |
|
Make a Sound that rattles all of us to our bones. |
|
Let it out. |
|
Let it out now. |
|
Make a Sound that rattles all of us to our bones. |
