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 shit till the sun pours in,
Revealing all the tiring oil drenched skin
But the music will play tomorrow and douse our washed up cocaine 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
Oh when the dead become the rebels