Preaching the good words to a crowd who could give less of a fuck about utopias and never-ending dreams
Basking in the glory of the lies you feed to us each and every day
Vomiting the stench of false promises seems to be a profession these days
Double standards and sellout heroes are the fuel of the crowds

We are looking for answers but no more words will come out
Channeling the very essence of our fall from grace

Yet you seem to be satisfied with the remains of their feasts
Screaming your discomfort only to bow down at their feet
Constantly changing colours is the way to go to hide from things you don't want to see

Transient and vague revolutions come and go like the change of the seasons

We are looking for answers but no more words will come out of me
Channeling the very essence of our fall from grace

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