| Song | Chamberlain Waits |
| Artist | The Menzingers |
| Album | Chamberlain Waits |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| I’ve been awake for hours, | |
| As I watch a sunrise come over nothing, | |
| While outside the cars start racing, | |
| Searching for something we could never seem to find or afford. | |
| Maybe I owe the Devil a little something, | |
| Just to keep things stable, | |
| Because last night I realised I was nothing more, | |
| Than just a serpent for his plans. | |
| Chamberlain’s waiting down at the bottom of the city of hell, | |
| Or heaven itself, | |
| As the whistle she sings, | |
| My hands building weapons for kings. | |
| While somebody’s drinking my last rations of victory gin, | |
| I’m sober as sin, | |
| As my hands start to shake, | |
| I fill with post-modern debates, | |
| While Chamberlain’s waiting. | |
| Build our mistakes to the clouds, | |
| Then blame us for dreaming out loud. |
| I' ve been awake for hours, | |
| As I watch a sunrise come over nothing, | |
| While outside the cars start racing, | |
| Searching for something we could never seem to find or afford. | |
| Maybe I owe the Devil a little something, | |
| Just to keep things stable, | |
| Because last night I realised I was nothing more, | |
| Than just a serpent for his plans. | |
| Chamberlain' s waiting down at the bottom of the city of hell, | |
| Or heaven itself, | |
| As the whistle she sings, | |
| My hands building weapons for kings. | |
| While somebody' s drinking my last rations of victory gin, | |
| I' m sober as sin, | |
| As my hands start to shake, | |
| I fill with postmodern debates, | |
| While Chamberlain' s waiting. | |
| Build our mistakes to the clouds, | |
| Then blame us for dreaming out loud. |
| I' ve been awake for hours, | |
| As I watch a sunrise come over nothing, | |
| While outside the cars start racing, | |
| Searching for something we could never seem to find or afford. | |
| Maybe I owe the Devil a little something, | |
| Just to keep things stable, | |
| Because last night I realised I was nothing more, | |
| Than just a serpent for his plans. | |
| Chamberlain' s waiting down at the bottom of the city of hell, | |
| Or heaven itself, | |
| As the whistle she sings, | |
| My hands building weapons for kings. | |
| While somebody' s drinking my last rations of victory gin, | |
| I' m sober as sin, | |
| As my hands start to shake, | |
| I fill with postmodern debates, | |
| While Chamberlain' s waiting. | |
| Build our mistakes to the clouds, | |
| Then blame us for dreaming out loud. |