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There's a boy in crimson rags with a grimace and a spoon |
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And a little sullen girl face-up staring at the moon |
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And there's no one around to hear their lonesome cries |
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Then they pass away alone into the night |
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Why do we pity the dead? |
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Are you churned by emotion from voices in your head? |
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Look at all the living and you'll ask yourself why |
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Oh, why do we pity the dead? |
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Well, you've seen the disease, suffering and decay |
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And you whisper to yourself blissfully, "It's okay" |
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And you still refuse the possibility |
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(That the dead are better off than we) |
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Why do we pity the dead? |
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Are you churned by emotion from voices in your head? |
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Look at all the living and you'll ask yourself why |
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Oh, why do we pity the dead? |
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Pity the dead |
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Tell me what you see |
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Tell me what you know |
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Is there anyone who lives a painless life? If there is show me so |
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The destitute and famished, demonic and the banished |
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Dejected and the ostracized, the brainwashed and the paralyzed |
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The conquered and objectified, the few who see the other side |
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Tell me what you see! |
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It's a mortal wretched cacophony |
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Let's go |
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In the end you may find there's no guiding subtle light |
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No ancestors or friends, no judge of wrong or right |
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Just eternal silence and dormancy |
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And a final everlasting peace |
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Why do we pity the dead? |
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Are you churned by emotion from voices in your head? |
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Look at all the living and you'll ask yourself why |
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Oh why do we pity the dead? |
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Why do we, why do we pity the dead? |
