It’s a wicked game that we play
making originals fade away
denying them bread by just doing the dead
and the ones that we would like to be
Do you see
Do you feel
Do you hear?
Do you wonder about
the silence so loud
in the depths of the listening ear?
Would you open the door
for those who bring more
than nostalgia and greed
and the casual tear of inheritance?
Would you let people dance
to the absence of trance
the enthrallment of everyone here?
Or do you opt
for the worst of our plans
the shit that hits all
available fans?
Make me more money
Make me more money
Make me money
The money we make is irrelevant
The stuff that we take isn’t it
It’s your eyes and your gaze
It’s the fire and blaze
It’s the mosh in your beautiful pit
The mosh in your beautiful pit.