Songs are being sung around the world, Flags are waving in the name of justice, Since we were children, We've always been the same, Saying, Who can prevent us from dying as heroes, From dying as heroes.

A friend of mine was working, As a buerocrat downtown, Thinkig about quiting, Because the job makes him dead inside. Surrounded by people, Who act as machines, Just working the papers, With nothing to

An empty room, Four white walls, Me and a flower, Singing the blues, The flower is dying, No sun shining through, I suppose it’s winter, But how can I know? No windows around me, Just sadness and death,

Screaming, Nonsense, Digital remastering, Whores, Twats and drugs, All about the money, Nothing for the soul, Forcing to create, Destroying music to the core, Greed and fame, Lust and power, Death to art,

The greedy are poor, The poor are rich, This fictional nonsense, A very time consuming expense. The good ended happily, The bad ended badly, A fictional story, To say the least. Life's worth everything,

Everything they say, Unbearably boring, Murder by monotony, A pitiful sight. They aren't worth attention, Nor the time, A place in society, Or the suns light. They are the stench, Of a lowlife latrine,