There has to be more than this to life.
More than empty lies,
and more than eternal strife.
But, oh, how the time used to fly.

It used to fly by in happiness,
an endless dream of expression.
Now it creeps by in nastiness,
an endless road from depression.

Oh, if I could fly as the time had
I would already long be gone.
Without me time would be glad,
and the world may see a new dawn.