| She’s plastic
|
| She’s speed-read
|
| A classic line between the lines
|
| Fantastic and half-dead
|
| His tactic blind to warning signs
|
| Her clashes of colors
|
| Are flashes of society
|
| In ashes
|
| His dollars like posters of a tragic love story
|
| See the puppet master laugh
|
| Astride a pale horse
|
| And take another photograph
|
| For selfie intercourse
|
| Reading out the epitaph
|
| Of our pointless wars
|
| For love we will tear us down
|
| He’s shooting at shadows
|
| Portraying a proper soldier boy
|
| She’s thinking in logos
|
| Still searching for the real McCoy
|
| Broadcasters, they’ve got this
|
| Disasters a wasp of a satire
|
| Like actors who French kiss
|
| Right after someone stole their fire
|
| See the puppet master laugh
|
| Astride a pale horse
|
| And take another photograph
|
| For selfie intercourse
|
| Reading out the epitaph
|
| Of our pointless wars
|
| For love we will tear…
|
| Us down that beaten path she treads
|
| Mirage the blushing bride he weds
|
| Yesterday’s diamonds and pearls
|
| Now worthless trinkets in their world
|
| The salty tang of blood
|
| Sensations running hot
|
| Snow blindness in pitch darkness
|
| Mindless rage
|
| And then you…
|
| See the puppet master laugh
|
| And take another photograph
|
| See the puppet master laugh
|
| Astride a pale horse
|
| And take another photograph
|
| For selfie intercourse
|
| Reading out the epitaph
|
| Of our pointless wars
|
| When love
|
| Love could be our crown |