Preaching the good words to a crowd who could give less 
of a fuck about utopias and never-ending dreams
Basking in the glory of the lies you feed to us each and 
every day
Vomiting the stench of false promises seems to be a 
profession these days
Double standards and sellout heroes are the fuel of the 
crowds
We are looking for answers but no more words will come 
out
Channeling the very essence of our fall from grace
Yet you seem to be satisfied with the remains of their 
feasts
Screaming your discomfort only to bow down at their feet
Constantly changing colours is the way to go to hide from 
things you don't want to see
Transient and vague revolutions come and go like the 
change of the seasons
We are looking for answers but no more words will come 
out of me
Channeling the very essence of our fall from grace