[Part I]

What's the future for a city with a broken sky?
Brush off tragedies for breakfast, watch it multiply
They'd rather sink with their belief than take a shot in pride
Thinking the lesson is more weapons brand new ways to die
And our attention is averted brand new ways to hide
Pile bodies onto court cases of others' lives
Treat every mishap like the last until we're out of time
Clock is ticking you're still under trance of fluffy dice
We made Private Pyle
We made Postal
We go global with it
Got the earth inside a chokehold
Burning forests, killing children
Bet it feels weird when you hear it spoken out in diction
This life we're living ends up more reality than

[Part II]

Problem was never intent
Pave the streets with red
Sewers bleeding through the vents
What is left to make of this
What is left to make of kids dead
What is left to make of scared pigs
What is left to make of hat tricks and
What is left to make of the states
Fifty places tracked to decay
What is left to make of the states
Fifty places moving in shape