| Racing toward the fever, salted stains in the shape of continents
|
| Sitting shotgun in his walk, the wish is father to the thought
|
| He says tonight will be the very last time
|
| To get the hell out of here, he’s the prince of far-gone
|
| Pacing every seizure, digging spurs into his chest
|
| He whips himself into the keys, «I am the new-born philistine!»
|
| Because the choice of his disease is your demise
|
| To get the hell out of here, he’s the prince of far-gone
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| God help me
|
| The zero hour delegates his suicide
|
| The whitest flag he loves to wave, he loves to wave
|
| And like a newborn finds a yawn to cash the treasure he has lost
|
| He thinks tonight’s going to be the very last time
|
| To get the hell out of here, he’s the prince of far-gone
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| God help me
|
| Desecrate it, desecrate it all
|
| Call broken arrow and level this ground
|
| Desecrate it, desecrate it all
|
| Call broken arrow this is all his fault
|
| Desecrate it, desecrate it all
|
| Call broken arrow and level this ground
|
| Desecrate it, desecrate it all
|
| Call broken arrow this is all his fault
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| And he’s always stealing flowers
|
| From my stone, stone, stone
|
| Never once repaying that which he does owe
|
| God help him |