I see your hands so full of cash, one thing I swear I'll never have, gleeful in all they covert. Yet our hardened hands, so resolute, are filled only with the hands of others. And as you grasp at the grains of youth, all Grey and Faust reminiscent, we have embraced mortality thus, escaping a desperate prison. These things we do aren't working, they feed your cancers. It's the chemicals that wash your thoughts, every time you drink to hurt them. its the poisons in your chest, its your lack of time with him. These things you do aren't working. It's hard and we are poor but we are young and we are good, and if you feel you're on your own, its not because you're wrong, just few have the courage, to see this 'til its done, we are no longer satisfied by fun, we are harder now... We are no longer satisfied by fun, our eyes are keen and stern for all that's good, we are harder now for what's been done. I wish it could be night all the time, it's so romantic when the sun doesn't shine, and I don't feel guilty or lazy for being poor, and I want to pursue meaning more. But they say life is darkest just before the sun, and so thank god the [bad word]  Is it right to sell your time 'til it's gone? Is all this more valuable than a song? Play on brothers, play on.