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An address to the golden door I was strumming on a stone again, Pulling teeth from the pimps of gore When hatched a tragic opera in my mind, And it told of a new design in which every soul is duty bound To uphold all the statutes of boredom Therein lies the fatal flaw of the red age Because it was nothing like we'd ever dreamt Or lust for life had gone away with the rent we hated And becase it made no money nobody saved no one's life this time So we burned all our uniforms And let nature take it's course again And the big onese just eat all the little ones That sends us back to the drawing board In my darkest hours We have all asked for some Angel to come Sprinkle his dust all around But all our crying voices they can't turn it around And you've had some crazy conversations of your own We've got rules and maps and guns in our backs but we still can't just behave ourselves, Even if to save our own lives So says I: We are a brutal kind 'Cause this is nothing like we'd ever dreamt Tell Sir Thomas More we've got another failed attempt 'Cause if it makes them money they might just give you life this time