Paroles: Riot Before (The). Fists Buried In Pockets. Numero Seven.

The smoke condescends to the bursting in air,
The fire ignites my imaginative fear,
Burning the reasons for why I am here,
Alone in the groans of despair.
The thousands applaud just as I did before,
Staring in awe at simulated war,
But my blurry eyes can't see what it's all for,
Celebrating what we should abhor.
There's a fight on the streets between opposing teams,
All yelling for blood all enraged,
It never ends and no one side will win
till' enough people stand up and walk away.
There's a line drawn in the sand I'm ignoring,
All this warring, is a two-sided coin,
a fight I won't join,
A power grab with a new name.
Pious ascend through ordained history,
Condemning the sin and the impurity,
Our hellish descent our culture's entropy,
That exists nowhere outside belief.
It's easier when someone else is to blame,
For your failings your problems your guilt and your shame,
So attach your idea to a forefather's name,
Then point and accuse and defame.
There's a fight on the streets between opposing teams,
All yelling for blood all enraged,
It never ends and no one side will win
till' enough people stand up and walk away.
There's a line drawn in the sand I'm ignoring,
Cause all this warring,
A continuous cycle never-ending,
I'm beginning to stop speaking loud
To walk from the crowd,
To quietly find a new way.