To the news that was ripe with disease,
It's a sickness to say what they please,
As the sycophants tire of their worthless wind,
And realize they're plots far too thin,
As they vye for the right side of an aisle,
With the black and white thoughts of a child
Saying,
She merely is,
And he must become,
They're wasting our time,
Talking off their tongues
And seen on a screen,
Our life as we know,
It's cool as it comes,
And feels ten below
Couldn't find the forest for the trees,
To the heart of the matter i mean,
As we bruise with the thinnest type of skin,
Do their pictures or words do us in?
As they vye for right side of an aisle,
With the black and white thoughts of a child
Saying,
She merely is,
And he must become,
They're wasting our time,
Talking off their tongues
And seen on a screen,
Our life as we know,
It's cool as it comes,
And feels ten below
Couldn't find the forest for the trees,
To the heart of the matter i mean,
It's the deepest and darkest of seas,
It's the distance between you and me
It's cool as it comes and feels ten below
It's the news that was ripe with disease,
It's a sickness to say what they please,
It's the deepest and darkest of seas,
It's the distance between you and me.

SUBMIT CORRECTIONS