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Description
Cry for the dead with remorse in your head.
Don't dare to deface all those things we replace
For the betterment and pleading hope
With nothing spent, but we're still broke.

A starving artist is an artist indeed,
'Til he shares guilt and his work bleeds.
Then there's nothing but still photos of beauty
Where we can admire what had been before,
Break in the foster god to his duty
To call her a virgin, a hurt virgin's whore.

We still call it pretty, a pretty bad lie,
When we can still see
What we'll be when we die.
A pretty mistake, a prophit's profit.
For no man to take, and no man to stop it.

Tears will stain and beat our gilded pain,
Two steps off the beat walk out for the light,
A good fool's street, where insane play at night.
Playing the games of fathers and figures
Dance out in shame, baying for diggers.
Faster for work, slowly lower
A lover in murk, knowingly nowhere.

Description
Cry for the dead with remorse in your head.
Don't dare to deface all those things we replace
For the betterment and pleading hope
With nothing spent, but we're still broke.

A starving artist is an artist indeed,
'Til he shares guilt and his work bleeds.
Then there's nothing but still photos of beauty
Where we can admire what had been before,
Break in the foster god to his duty
To call her a virgin, a hurt virgin's whore.

We still call it pretty, a pretty bad lie,
When we can still see
What we'll be when we die.
A pretty mistake, a prophit's profit.
For no man to take, and no man to stop it.

Tears will stain and beat our gilded pain,
Two steps off the beat walk out for the light,
A good fool's street, where insane play at night.
Playing the games of fathers and figures
Dance out in shame, baying for diggers.
Faster for work, slowly lower
A lover in murk, knowingly nowhere.