Rain
Like Tin Angels Falling Down
Like A Mission And We're Halfway There
From Some Old Dried Up Fried Forgotten Town
Why
Won't They Let Us Be Ourselves
With Out Potential We Could Toe The Line
And Show The Bastards Up With Our Divine
Light

Seize
All The Records From The Past
Hold Ransom All The Artifacts
This Ragged Town Protects Them To The Last
With Lies

See Them Running Homeward To Seattle

Deem
All The Liars In Your Tribe
To Be The Fires On The Westen Side
Of Some Old Froom We Call The War Of Art
Rain
Like Tin Angels Falling Down
Like A Mission And We're Halfway There
From Some Old Dried Up Fried Forgotten Town
From Some Old Dried Up Fried Forgotten Town
To Some Dried Up Fried Up Forgotten
Town