Fathers! Where are your sons?
Don’t bother it’s too late for their lost souls
City of Id, cold and apathetic, like cold blood congealing
Fuck the shallow hearts still beating
I hold no grudge against the dead.
There are forests of trees just like you. your pruning means more to you than the fruit that you bare
Erotic or erratic, who gives a fuck? it’s all static to you.
All of the things I stand for are passion and truth,
but these hearts are turning quickly away from a home that embraced and embodied you.
Fuck the fashion. I hate what you’ve done to this scene.
Where’s the passion? It’s been replaced by greed.
Maybe I’m too fucking old, but there’s a story inside that refuses to go untold
And I’ll be damned If I’m told to walk away.
So roll the credits, cut the cord, no one gives a fuck anymore.
I hold my hopes and my dreams in the hearts and minds of the young.
This complacency, just might be, the death of me.
A true artist’s work is never done.
these hearts are turning quickly away from a scene that embraced and embodied you.
The fashion is dead.
We are like windmills, syncopated and repeating. It’s a firm reminder of who I am.