This must be the height of the decline
while we drink and sing, songs of our purgatorial life
We all do what we do to wash away our blues.
And this gardens of debts with their stemmed cigarettes
are lit by desire to forever burn in the fire
I assume it must be good to be relevant demanding truce.
When forever fades and it rains curtains of grey
our beaten beating hearts could not synchronize
The lesson we were to lose, we're the green and purple of the bruise.
Since we know Egyptian folklore
Has us where it wants to
Who are we to not go along
But first get us a job, a food in plate type of JOB.
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