| Withered and broken man
|
| So fragile, so frail, so undignified by standards
|
| But they will never break him
|
| He has found his place
|
| This harmless hero that they patronize
|
| Is but a saint
|
| Can’t you feel his pain and lost love
|
| Inside this decorated soldier?
|
| Infinite patience
|
| The sticks and stones they throw
|
| They scar his flesh, shatter bone
|
| But they will never break him
|
| He has found his place
|
| This harmless hero that they patronize
|
| Is but a saint
|
| Can’t you feel his pain, lost love
|
| Inside this decorated soldier?
|
| His only friend, the night
|
| The calm, the quiet cold
|
| But you’ll never seem him cry
|
| But they will never know, never know
|
| Know his name
|
| These sad old songs he sings are solid gold
|
| They resonate
|
| The hate we’ve shown him
|
| He’ll carry to his resting place
|
| The hate we’ve shown him
|
| He’ll carry to a lonely grave
|
| So leave him in the darkness. |
| NO
|
| Leave him hopeless, social creation
|
| Leave him with sickness
|
| But let it be said, that’s how he looks at you
|
| Can’t you feel his pain and lost love
|
| Inside this decorated soldier?
|
| His only friend, the night
|
| The calm and quiet cold
|
| But you’ll never see him cry
|
| And on that day he reached out
|
| He grabbed, pulled me close
|
| He whispered to me in a voice barely audible
|
| He said, «This life is what you make it
|
| Don’t let it pass you by
|
| If you don’t care whether you live or die
|
| You’re the most alive you’ll ever be.» |