It's times like these, I wish I did not fret.
I'd take the ashes from the burning lake, and write to you once more.
I don't care what is said or whose blood should be shed, I'd still take the pain.
What is to become of those who are late, who davel in life and toil in voided reality.
Why can't they see, why can't they go??? What must I choose so's not to loose??
These are the things that you helped me with, and still I refuse.
And all the Men, whose hearts you touch...and those that you don't,
Can't see what it's like when I sing the blues and drink the sober mind 'till death.
It's times like these that I wish I lived a blind man, and deaf and slaughtered too.
But, it can't be stopped and you try to piece together the puzzle that was never there
