People are puppets, held together with string.
There's a beautiful sadness that runs through him, as he asks me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in.
Time and again boys are raised to be men: impatient they start, fearful they end.
But here was a man mourning tomorrow.
He drank, but finally drowned in his sorrow.
He could not break surface tension.
He looked in the wrong place for redemption.
Don't look at me with those eyes; I tried to anaethatise; turn back the tide that drew him.
But he couldn't be saved: a sadness runs through him, through him.
Time and again boys are raised to be men: impatient they start, fearful they end.
But here was a man mourning tomorrow, who drank, but finally drowned in his sorrow
He could not break surface tension.
He looked in the wrong place for redemption.
Don't look at me with those eyes; I tried to anaethatise; turn back the tide that drew him.
But he couldn't be saved: a sadness runs through him, through him.
Don't look...Don't look...Don't...Don't
Don't look at me with those eyes; I tried to unheave the ties: turn back the time that drew him.
But he couldn't be saved, no, he couldn't be saved: sadness runs through him, sadness runs through him, sadness runs through him, sadness runs through him, sadness runs through him
Writer(s): Martin Skarendahl, Irwin Sparkes, Alan Sharland
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