| Song | Scarsick |
| Artist | Pain of Salvation |
| Album | Scarsick |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Gildenlöw | |
| Sick! | |
| I feel sick, I'll be sick, then it's fine | |
| I'm conform to your norm | |
| With a bucket full of me | |
| I'll be free, finally | |
| I will see what you mean with your freedom | |
| This world you call home | |
| Not alone, happy drone | |
| Won't be sick of these cars | |
| All these codes, and these bars | |
| All these sickening scars | |
| I'll believe in the way | |
| Of the stripes and the superstars | |
| I will fall in line and obey | |
| 'Cause the price is so small | |
| Almost nothing at all | |
| If I'm just losing me | |
| Then the ideals and truths | |
| Will follow naturally | |
| Happily I will settle for your conformative apathy | |
| If I could just get rid of this unsettling, uncomfortable | |
| Unbendable bucket of insight and honesty | |
| This sick sick sick bucket of reality | |
| But you see: this sick will stick | |
| 'Cause it's me! | |
| It's me! | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick! | |
| Sick! | |
| Feeling sickened by this fucking travesty | |
| Is just a sign of sanity | |
| You're not alone | |
| And every time that you hurt | |
| Every cut, every scar | |
| And every time you just hate | |
| Everything that you are | |
| It is simply the instinct to flee | |
| To escape from this mess | |
| This continuous rape | |
| Of what's true and what's real | |
| So you gnaw at your paw | |
| To get out of this trap | |
| Of the cage, of our time | |
| All that rage | |
| Is your struggle to survive | |
| They think you wanna die | |
| When in truth you just strive | |
| Biting every hand | |
| Just to stay alive | |
| But can you hear that sound | |
| In your ear, growing louder and louder | |
| The whole world around you | |
| A pounding and grinding | |
| That tells you that you're not alone | |
| It's the sound of thousands and thousands | |
| Of vixen teeth | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| Of these bars and these cars | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| So sick | |
| Sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Sick | |
| It's all sick | |
| We're all sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground |
| zuo qu : Gildenl w | |
| Sick! | |
| I feel sick, I' ll be sick, then it' s fine | |
| I' m conform to your norm | |
| With a bucket full of me | |
| I' ll be free, finally | |
| I will see what you mean with your freedom | |
| This world you call home | |
| Not alone, happy drone | |
| Won' t be sick of these cars | |
| All these codes, and these bars | |
| All these sickening scars | |
| I' ll believe in the way | |
| Of the stripes and the superstars | |
| I will fall in line and obey | |
| ' Cause the price is so small | |
| Almost nothing at all | |
| If I' m just losing me | |
| Then the ideals and truths | |
| Will follow naturally | |
| Happily I will settle for your conformative apathy | |
| If I could just get rid of this unsettling, uncomfortable | |
| Unbendable bucket of insight and honesty | |
| This sick sick sick bucket of reality | |
| But you see: this sick will stick | |
| ' Cause it' s me! | |
| It' s me! | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick! | |
| Sick! | |
| Feeling sickened by this fucking travesty | |
| Is just a sign of sanity | |
| You' re not alone | |
| And every time that you hurt | |
| Every cut, every scar | |
| And every time you just hate | |
| Everything that you are | |
| It is simply the instinct to flee | |
| To escape from this mess | |
| This continuous rape | |
| Of what' s true and what' s real | |
| So you gnaw at your paw | |
| To get out of this trap | |
| Of the cage, of our time | |
| All that rage | |
| Is your struggle to survive | |
| They think you wanna die | |
| When in truth you just strive | |
| Biting every hand | |
| Just to stay alive | |
| But can you hear that sound | |
| In your ear, growing louder and louder | |
| The whole world around you | |
| A pounding and grinding | |
| That tells you that you' re not alone | |
| It' s the sound of thousands and thousands | |
| Of vixen teeth | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| Of these bars and these cars | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| So sick | |
| Sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Sick | |
| It' s all sick | |
| We' re all sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground |
| zuò qǔ : Gildenl w | |
| Sick! | |
| I feel sick, I' ll be sick, then it' s fine | |
| I' m conform to your norm | |
| With a bucket full of me | |
| I' ll be free, finally | |
| I will see what you mean with your freedom | |
| This world you call home | |
| Not alone, happy drone | |
| Won' t be sick of these cars | |
| All these codes, and these bars | |
| All these sickening scars | |
| I' ll believe in the way | |
| Of the stripes and the superstars | |
| I will fall in line and obey | |
| ' Cause the price is so small | |
| Almost nothing at all | |
| If I' m just losing me | |
| Then the ideals and truths | |
| Will follow naturally | |
| Happily I will settle for your conformative apathy | |
| If I could just get rid of this unsettling, uncomfortable | |
| Unbendable bucket of insight and honesty | |
| This sick sick sick bucket of reality | |
| But you see: this sick will stick | |
| ' Cause it' s me! | |
| It' s me! | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick! | |
| Sick! | |
| Feeling sickened by this fucking travesty | |
| Is just a sign of sanity | |
| You' re not alone | |
| And every time that you hurt | |
| Every cut, every scar | |
| And every time you just hate | |
| Everything that you are | |
| It is simply the instinct to flee | |
| To escape from this mess | |
| This continuous rape | |
| Of what' s true and what' s real | |
| So you gnaw at your paw | |
| To get out of this trap | |
| Of the cage, of our time | |
| All that rage | |
| Is your struggle to survive | |
| They think you wanna die | |
| When in truth you just strive | |
| Biting every hand | |
| Just to stay alive | |
| But can you hear that sound | |
| In your ear, growing louder and louder | |
| The whole world around you | |
| A pounding and grinding | |
| That tells you that you' re not alone | |
| It' s the sound of thousands and thousands | |
| Of vixen teeth | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Hitting bone | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Step into the dark age of treason | |
| Today the only voice of reason | |
| Would have to be the sound | |
| Of the soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Hitting ground | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| Of these bars and these cars | |
| Sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| I feel sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| So sick | |
| Sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Sick | |
| It' s all sick | |
| We' re all sick | |
| You are making me sick | |
| Soup of the season | |
| Hitting ground |