Shall we use needles or knives to realign your spine? the tissue degenerates so rapidly perhaps it proves it is the time to cover your face and smile at me to see if I am out of sight, denying ventricle flow revel in your plight tonight, you're such a wonderful person to know and my name will rest in utter disdain my resentment receives its wings for flight you deceitfully stroll on just the same into your holy light
With music destroyed, we'll only create noise sweet dissonance is all that you'll have left we'll dance across its grave the art of singing empty praise with knives of hope and peace stab art to death
I've watched it on its drugs and I've seen the doctors shrug cerebellums withered up, the heart is black
No scalpel, pill or stitch, no religious sales pitch will ever bring the art that's dying back and so we are the heirs, of this glowing lack of care our hearts in one discord we all cry out for blood and spit we clap, the amps are feeding back my heart is filled with the one to whom I shout
And glowing you speak in the friendliest tongue in sentiments of gold and oh the sweetest songs are sung and the sweetest lies are told so spread this virus and seek yourself you pursue it quite relentlessly when Sunday comes you'll raise hands to sing what a glorious sight to see
Yet I see true art, I see her, and I see you and Father you inspire me to sing to you you inspire me to sing to you
Burn all the flags and the money, sacrifice and laugh
The light in your eyes reflects and I see myself and all I want to be for you I'll give everything, just to linger on your lips and feel your fingertips, you are an angel
Art is not the world, art is in our heart
And so I am the prince of sounds that make ears ring my princess kiss me with your sweet lips and lo, my heart will sing if art is in yourself, or in a class at school if art is ego and selfishness, and at the mercy of primitive tools we sing sweet good-byes in screams and screeches and bury these knives in your heart no paintings or poems to let you live on we've seen the last of art as servants and lovers we wash your feet and cry out into the dark the noise, the beauty, the love you bring me stabs these knives right into art art is not the world, art is in our hearts
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Copy to Clipboard: Shall we use needles or knives to realign your spine? the tissue degenerates so rapidly perhaps it proves it is the time to cover your face and smile at me to see if I am out of sight, denying ventricle flow revel in your plight tonight, you're such a wonderful person to know and my name will rest in utter disdain my resentment receives its wings for flight you deceitfully stroll on just the same into your holy light
With music destroyed, we'll only create noise sweet dissonance is all that you'll have left we'll dance across its grave the art of singing empty praise with knives of hope and peace stab art to death
I've watched it on its drugs and I've seen the doctors shrug cerebellums withered up, the heart is black
No scalpel, pill or stitch, no religious sales pitch will ever bring the art that's dying back and so we are the heirs, of this glowing lack of care our hearts in one discord we all cry out for blood and spit we clap, the amps are feeding back my heart is filled with the one to whom I shout
And glowing you speak in the friendliest tongue in sentiments of gold and oh the sweetest songs are sung and the sweetest lies are told so spread this virus and seek yourself you pursue it quite relentlessly when Sunday comes you'll raise hands to sing what a glorious sight to see
Yet I see true art, I see her, and I see you and Father you inspire me to sing to you you inspire me to sing to you
Burn all the flags and the money, sacrifice and laugh
The light in your eyes reflects and I see myself and all I want to be for you I'll give everything, just to linger on your lips and feel your fingertips, you are an angel
Art is not the world, art is in our heart
And so I am the prince of sounds that make ears ring my princess kiss me with your sweet lips and lo, my heart will sing if art is in yourself, or in a class at school if art is ego and selfishness, and at the mercy of primitive tools we sing sweet good-byes in screams and screeches and bury these knives in your heart no paintings or poems to let you live on we've seen the last of art as servants and lovers we wash your feet and cry out into the dark the noise, the beauty, the love you bring me stabs these knives right into art art is not the world, art is in our hearts
Stab art to death
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