The things we laid do not amount too much
Made of abandoned wood, loose stones and such
This revolution, baby
Proves who you work for maybe
Release the castaways who run amok
From self-appointed winds which blow and such
When present tense gets strangled in the mire
Made of our cozy decomposing wires
Who do you work for, baby?
And does it work for you lately?
But when the night is over and the walls start burning
When fire starts to matter and the clock's still churning
Clich
Enjoy the lyrics !!!