| Now it’s not what it seems
|
| I just can’t start to say
|
| It was these evil days
|
| Of pain and fear
|
| Something was broke
|
| My skin hard like an oak
|
| My mind hard like an oak
|
| I got a history of violence
|
| It’s not written on my face
|
| You wouldn’t know it
|
| It’s buried in my leather case
|
| I got a memory of violence
|
| It’s not written on my skin
|
| You couldn’t see it
|
| It’s a ripple in my grin
|
| Like the people of my kin
|
| And now it’s not what it seems
|
| I just can’t start to say
|
| It was these evil days
|
| Of pain and fear
|
| Something was broke
|
| My mind hard like an oak
|
| My skin hard like an oak
|
| I got a history of silence
|
| The bruises and the sins
|
| Don’t wash away
|
| It’s not written in my name
|
| Like a freckle on my skin
|
| Something that I’ve never shown
|
| Memories from a broken home
|
| The engine with no train
|
| Shame like a funny game
|
| The witness of the sin
|
| The scratches on my skin
|
| The moment I begin
|
| To runaway James Dean
|
| The shutter on the screen
|
| The curtain on the scene
|
| The arrow in the breast
|
| The weight inside the chest
|
| An erasble race
|
| With no traceable trace
|
| Satchel full of lies
|
| The devil in the eye
|
| It’s not written on my grave
|
| It’s not written on my grave
|
| It’s not written on my grave
|
| You wouldn’t know it
|
| I’m buried safe and well behaved
|
| I got a history of evil
|
| I got a history of evil
|
| I got a history of evil |