| The man 'cross the street he don’t move a muscle
|
| Though he’s all covered in dust
|
| When constitutions of granite can’t save the planet
|
| What’s to become of us?
|
| With a painted restraint I don’t move a muscle
|
| Though a turbine roars
|
| If the bathwater’s clear and my ear’s underwater
|
| It’s a tolerant hum from the core
|
| Sleep’s beckoning from the depths
|
| From the cracks and from the crevices
|
| Join the army of ghosts, the murmurs in the mist
|
| That’s when the powers of observation
|
| Come to the periphery town
|
| And we’d carry their water
|
| We don’t make a sound
|
| And after gaining our resignation
|
| They come through the chain link fence
|
| Your only enemy’s panic
|
| Your only chance is to start making sense
|
| Sleep plunging into deeper debt
|
| Inter bunkers and black minarets
|
| On a geyser of ink, a morning voice faint and yet
|
| And it sounds heroincredible
|
| Sound that makes the headphones edible
|
| Awake, affiliated and indelible
|
| The man 'cross the street don’t move a muscle
|
| Though he’s all covered in dust
|
| Says constitutions of granite can’t save the planet
|
| What’s left to captivate us? |
| (What's to become of us?)
|
| What’s left to captivate us? |
| (What's to become of us?)
|
| What’s left to captivate us? |
| (What's to become of us?)
|
| What’s to become of us? |