The windows to her soul are more like packed out group homes Where young hope goes bitter as they wait for a frozen tv dinner
Dj's spin trap **** till the sun pours in, Revealing all the tiring oil drenched skin But the music will play tomorrow and douse our washed up ******* sorrow
This cycle will repeat and our fainting hearts cannot compete For all those manic tapping feet Will grow weak and happy faces will replete
The vital symmetry has died and mother mary still will cry Till the balance beam is level and the dead become the rebels