Fantasyâ€™s kicked out the door by happy hypocrisy. Your hands are bleeding from playing with my heart. Even the angels have lost all tact and instead visit in black. In the corner, i play cards with the dead. Ale in hand, i march in someone elseâ€™s band.
Hand on hip, the singer stares at what heâ€™s all too aware of. Where am I going? Do I go where the beatâ€™s in flow?