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Bad Religion
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Pity The Dead
There's a boy in crimson rags with a grimace and a spoon, and a little
sullen
Girl face-up staring at the moon
And there's no one around to hear their lonesome cries
Then they pass away alone into the night
Why do we pity the dead?
Are you churned by emotion from the voices in your head?
(Are you scared of the logic that swirls within your head?)
Look at all the living and you'll ask yourself why
Oh, why do we
Pity the dead?
Pity the dead!
Well, you've seen the disease, suffering and decay and you whisper to
Yourself blissfully 'It's okay'
And you still refuse the possibility
That the dead are better off than we
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Tell me what you see, tell me what you know
Is there anyone who lives a painless life?
If there is show me so
The destitute and famished, demonic and the banished, dejected and the
ostracized,
the brainwashed and the paralyzed, the conquered and the
objectified, the few who
see the other side
Tell me what you see? It's a mortal wretched cacophony
In the end you may find there's no guiding subtle light
no ancestors or friends, no judge of wrong or right
Just eternal silence and dormancy
And a final everlasting peace
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