We've come so far,
and here we are.
Admits the endless hum.
No wind worth chasing.
No revolution.
No blazing battle drum.
We laughed as we said,
"the music is dead."
We've plucked out our eyes;
we've shattered its head.
My work is so weary
so let it be said
"Father, thy will be done."

Instruments make the best sounds
as they're breaking.
People make the best smiles
when they're faking.
Note are shattered,
blood is splattered.
The night is our for the taking,
and what shall we say now that it is gone?
In our eyes are no tears;
in our hearts are no songs,
and now we've gone pale, what was it we saw?
The beauty, the horror,
of rock that is so raw.