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An address to the golden door
I was strumming on a stone again
Pulling teeth from the pimps of gore, when hatched
A tragic opera in my mind
And it told of a new design
In which every soul is duty bound
To uphold all the statues of boredom, therein lies
The fatal flaw of the red age

Because it was nothing
Like we'd ever dreamt
Our lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated
Because it made no money
And mighta saved nobody's life this time

So we burned all our uniforms
And let nature take its course again
And the big ones just eat all the little ones
Sent us back to the drawing board

In our darkest hours
We have all asked for some
Angel to come
Sprinkle his dust all-around
But all our crying voices, they can't turn it around
And you've had some crazy conversations of your own

We got rules and maps
And guns in our backs
But we still can't just behave ourselves
Even if to save our own lives
So says I:
We are a brutal kind

'Cause this is nothing like we'd ever dreamt
Tell Sir Thomas More we've got another failed attempt
'Cause if it makes them money
They might just give you life this time

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