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In this city of cynical liars, |
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Walking the tight rope, holding the balancing beam. |
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We'll burn the rope at both ends, |
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Hoping to catch a glimpse of truth in their eyes, |
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As they fall, as they fall... (As they crash and they burn) |
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Pay the toll, there's a tax on your senses, |
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If you smell, taste, see, feel, or hear the children laughing |
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Because they don't know, |
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But being ignorant is better than malignant. |
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CH: Label me, make me infantry, |
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I'm an infant with artillery, |
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Harness me, use a muzzle to muffle my everything, |
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Please forbid me of all creativity. |
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Please make me infantry. |
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Obesity, can it be a nationality? |
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A reality, enforced by a strict security? |
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The buildings made of trees, made of money, made of disease. |
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A society based on freedom, run by hate and want and greed. |
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A generation of overmedicated kids given pills to level their thoughts, |
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They're unusual so they'll be abused, |
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They'll be purchased and sold, and bought and sold |
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And buy and sell them again. |
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CH: Repeat |
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The daily routine, |
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A well-oiled machine, |
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Interrupted by the fire, |
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That came from the sky... save the queen bee! |
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All that's left are the torched remains of a world worth knowing, |
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They smile as they're frozen in space forever, |
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A shadow on the wall, a silhouette, is all that survived the blast, |
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The children in the yard on the swing are all gone, but the swings still swinging. The swings still swinging. |
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Please, please, please push me faster, |
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I want to fly, |
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Please, please, please push me higher, |
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I've got to fly. |
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I think I can see your house from up here, |
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Yeah, it's the one, |
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With the fire, and the smoke, and the flames, |
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And it burns like gasoline. |
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Repeat: Chorus |
