| Put your hands out
|
| Let’s see what comes your way
|
| Bet it’s not much, still enough to
|
| Let your hands stay
|
| Burns your fingers though you’ll swallow the pain
|
| For the thrill of waiting for what comes your way
|
| The golden pupils that fills your head
|
| Will turn to ashes and dust instead
|
| The sense of dying you’ve lived with and bred
|
| Fulfills it’s mission and the reaper turns red
|
| Still you thirst with this
|
| It’s clean, but it comes from dirt
|
| I can cure any disease
|
| I cure pain and misbelief
|
| The weight controls your very step
|
| You can’t ease them by paying your debt
|
| Truth still hurts again and again
|
| Guess you’re clean, but you come from dirt
|
| Still you thirst with this
|
| It’s clean, but it comes from dirt
|
| I can cure any disease
|
| I cure pain and misbelief
|
| Still you thirst
|
| It’s clean, but it comes from dirt
|
| I can cure any disease
|
| I cure pain and misbelief
|
| Still you thirst with this
|
| It’s clean, but it comes from dirt
|
| I can cure any disease
|
| I cure pain and misbelief |