|
The fire is already out |
|
When the rain comes |
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The nucleus of stress |
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Chooses dust in the end |
|
Like aerosol evils |
|
In a rush towards the sun |
|
It's an oasis inside out |
|
And fire is the trend |
|
An oasis inside out |
|
And fire, fire is the trend |
|
Now what's left on your plate |
|
As you sterilize the tine? |
|
Have lessons on earth |
|
Left you the will of a boy? |
|
Are you just passing time |
|
Or do you taste the wine? |
|
What's left for us this spring |
|
Besides grass-stained corduroy? |
|
What's left for us this spring |
|
Besides scratched-out corduroy? |
|
Well, like it or not |
|
The locusts come from spring |
|
And all your plans are shot |
|
And that stock's not worth a thing |
|
Like it or not |
|
The neighbours yell when we sing |
|
Together |
|
Like it or not |
|
The locusts come from spring |
|
And all your plans are shot |
|
And that stock's not worth a thing |
|
Like it or not |
|
The neighbours yell when we sing |
|
Now, I like pissing you, pissing you off |
|
To get some kind of rise, I don't mind to suffer the sting of the cold from your eye |
|
But suddenly I see that I can see when you're blind |
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To the weather, the spring, and the simplest things that bring us together |
