Medics Have Been Calling; They Say This Body Is Still Warm
We're constructing alibis and as time flies we'll change identities. You won't recognize me
Tomorrow we'll be strangers plotting a conspiracy. The longer I scream the dizzier it gets.
When will we stop to hide behind our wrath and find there's nothing left, nothing left to care about.
Only privileged middle-class f**** preaching to the converted, just like me. Afraid of the fact
that we're all growing old. Too soon we'll be mocking the days we lived for. This movement will be dead by dawn.
But this mouth speaks only madness in search for reason, in search for the glory that lies in the chance we have
to do the things we love.
For it's blurred by a state of rush in which I built my home, in which I'm building chapels for our ungratefulness.
Tonight they'll erect monuments to praise the rings around our eyes only to tear them down by dawn.
Cause it gets hard to dance when the blues is always on. But a self-righteous martyr never lacks words.
So just read on for I got plenty more of them.
Only privileged middle-class f**** preaching to the converted, just like me. Afraid of the fact
that we're all growing old. Too soon we'll be mocking the days we lived for. This movement will be dead by dawn.
But this mouth speaks only madness in search for reason, in search for the glory that lies in the chance we have
to do the things we love.
We're constructing alibis and as time flies we'll change identities. You won't recognize me
Tomorrow we'll be strangers plotting a conspiracy. The longer I scream the dizzier it gets.
When will we stop to hide behind our wrath and find there's nothing left, nothing left to care about.
Only privileged middle-class f**** preaching to the converted, just like me. Afraid of the fact
that we're all growing old. Too soon we'll be mocking the days we lived for. This movement will be dead by dawn.
But this mouth speaks only madness in search for reason, in search for the glory that lies in the chance we have
to do the things we love.
For it's blurred by a state of rush in which I built my home, in which I'm building chapels for our ungratefulness.
Tonight they'll erect monuments to praise the rings around our eyes only to tear them down by dawn.
Cause it gets hard to dance when the blues is always on. But a self-righteous martyr never lacks words.
So just read on for I got plenty more of them.
Only privileged middle-class f**** preaching to the converted, just like me. Afraid of the fact
that we're all growing old. Too soon we'll be mocking the days we lived for. This movement will be dead by dawn.
But this mouth speaks only madness in search for reason, in search for the glory that lies in the chance we have
to do the things we love.