| The fire is already out
|
| When the rain comes
|
| The nucleus of stress
|
| Chooses dust in the end
|
| Like aerosol evils
|
| In a rush towards the sun
|
| It’s an oasis inside out
|
| And fire is the trend
|
| An oasis inside out
|
| And fire, fire is the trend
|
| Now what’s left on your plate
|
| As you sterilize the tine?
|
| Have lessons on earth
|
| Left you the will of a boy?
|
| Are you just passing time
|
| Or do you taste the wine?
|
| What’s left for us this spring
|
| Besides grass-stained corduroy?
|
| What’s left for us this spring
|
| Besides scratched-out corduroy?
|
| Well, like it or not
|
| The locusts come from spring
|
| And all your plans are shot
|
| And that stock’s not worth a thing
|
| Like it or not
|
| The neighbours yell when we sing
|
| Together
|
| Like it or not
|
| The locusts come from spring
|
| And all your plans are shot
|
| And that stock’s not worth a thing
|
| Like it or not
|
| The neighbours yell when we sing
|
| Now, I like pissing you, pissing you off
|
| To get some kind of rise, I don’t mind to suffer the sting of the cold from
|
| your eye
|
| But suddenly I see that I can see when you’re blind
|
| To the weather, the spring, and the simplest things that bring us together |