| 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 dremt | |
| Our lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated | |
| And because it made no money nobody saved no one's life. | |
| So we burned all our uniforms | |
| And let nature take its course again | |
| And the big ones just eat all the little ones | |
| That 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've 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. | |
| Cuz this is nothing like we'd ever dremt | |
| Tell Sir Thomas More we've got another failed attempt | |
| Cuz if it makes them money they might just give you life this time. |
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