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Black Market Radio
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Suicide Parlour
We hitchhike other's virtue because we've
Lost the edge to sharpen our own tools...
Strap on our excuses and we worship
Them like they're the golden rules...
Genius don't come honestly for martyrs
Or for we the common fools...
In love with our pain and our mind
Pollution, the logical solution is to die...
And live our lives like alibis...
And yet we have the good taste,
No to cry...
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We ride love like a bullet train,
Love like that is not supposed to last...
History don't ever change so we reside
Our living in the past...
Hiding our shame in out evolution,
The logical conclusion is to die...
The perfect job, the perfect wife,
The perfect house, the perfect life...
The perfect smile, the perfect car,
We're perfectly unhappy where we are...
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