Our standard clichés Gods on TVs The hands on the neck Squeezing out the needs Our taste for violence Feeding company, oh As the world is raging In this oblivion ease of justifying ways The body is broken, yeah Leaking gasoline, oh And everybody is singing On the madmen themes So let us sing, oh Ohh Ohh, yeah yeah If it's going down there Play the fool with me, oh But if the blood is in our hands Don't you make me see So point your fingers Blame destiny, oh 'Cause it was always too late If it's what were born to be, ohh Ohh Ohh, yeah yeah