|
Dead land's collided. |
|
You pour your life down the rifle's spiral |
|
And show us you've earned it. |
|
Cleric's fog will recede right before your eyes. |
|
|
|
So long to this wretched form. |
|
Down gray eyes on the subway. |
|
Long before you were born |
|
You were always to be a dagger floating |
|
Straight to their heart. |
|
|
|
Listen, now, we won't tell anyone. |
|
But you're gonna tell the world. |
|
So life ain't then any fun. |
|
May this rail unfurl. |
|
|
|
As you rise; rise from your burning fiat, |
|
Go, go get my suitcase, would you? |
|
You've thoroughly blown their mind. |
|
|
|
|
|
And now I must have passage on the lines |
|
To the veins from your heart. |
|
|
|
You're not invisible, now. |
|
You just don't exist. |
|
Your mother must be so proud. |
|
You sublimate yourself, drowning us of rich. |
|
|
|
Primitive mirror on the wall, |
|
to fortify your grim resolve. |
|
And made the glitz of a shopping mall |
|
another grain of indigent salt to the sea. |
|
|
|
Go back to this wretched form |
|
All them gray eyes on the subway |
|
So long before you were born |
|
you were always to be a dagger floating |
|
straight to their heart. |
