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Old English
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Lotteries and Tents
This company
Torn at the seams
Scattered like seed
A cold summer's breeze
Summer's disease
Is a part of me
And now all our days are spent
Losing lotteries and pitching tents
This can't be what you meant
For our knees to bruise
But barely leave a dent
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It's always the same
The curse of this age
Is changing our names
I'll cling to a grace
That feels far away
I'm desperate for change
I find it hard to see
And it's so hard to believe
This was always meant to be
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