An address to the golden door
pulling teeth from the pimps of gore when hatched
I was strumming on a stone again
and it told of a new design
a tragic opera in my mind.
in which every soul is duty bound
to uphold all the statues of boredom therein lies
the fatal flaw of the red age
Because it was nothing like we'd ever dreamt our lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated
and because it made no money nobody saved no one's life. and the big ones just eat all the little ones
So we burned all our uniforms
and let nature take its course again In our darkest hours
that send us back to the drawing board.
we have all asked for some
angel to come
but all our crying voices they can't turn it around
sprinkle his dust all around
and you've had some crazy conversations of your own. but we still can't just behave ourselves
We've got rules and maps and guns in our backs
even if to save our own lives so, says I, WE ARE A BURTAL KIND. tell Sir Thomas More we've got another failed attempt
Cuz this is nothing like we'd ever dreamt
cuz if it makes them money they might just give you life this time.
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