Our standard clichés
Gods on TVs
The hands on the neck
Squeezing out the needs
Our taste for violence
Feeding company, oh
As the world is raging
In this oblivion ease of justifying ways
The body is broken, yeah
Leaking gasoline, oh
And everybody is singing
On the madmen themes
So let us sing, oh
Ohh Ohh, yeah yeah
If it's going down there
Play the fool with me, oh
But if the blood is in our hands
Don't you make me see
So point your fingers
Blame destiny, oh
'Cause it was always too late
If it's what were born to be, ohh
Ohh Ohh, yeah yeah