Tekster: Thrice. All The World Is Mad.

:
We are saints made of plaster, our laughter is canned;
We are demons that hide in the mirror.
But the blood on our hands paints a picture exceedingly clear.

We are brimming with cumbersome, murderous greed,
And malevolence deep and profound.
We do unspeakable deeds, does our wickedness know any bounds?

Something?s gone terribly wrong with everyone;
All the world is mad.
Darkness brings terrible things; the sun is gone-
What vanity! our sad, wretched fires.

We can?t medicate man to perfection again;
We can?t legislate peace in our hearts.
We can?t educate sin from our souls, it?s been there from the start.

But the blind lead the blind into bottomless pits,
Still we smile and deny that we?re cursed.
But of all our iniquities ignorance may be the worst.

Oh, what little light we have!
It only serves to show
The snares and seeds of wrath
We have already sewn on every path.