There's a sky of hopes and lost dreams
And it's falling on all who believe
But the stolen, the killed, and the broken
In denial and they'll always be

It's not hard to set your mind to love
And it's not at all hard to forget
So we're dying,
We're crying,
We're prying,
Because we've all got well-informed heads

And when alleys and skies turn against you
And they drown you in all that they have,
Well what if those alleys are empty?
And what if the forecaster's mad?
Will you give up all hope you've acquired?
Will the endless be endlessly sad,
Will the monsters come out from their fires?
Will we severe the ill-informed heads?
Will the working class suddenly tire,
Will the deadly become, then, the dead?

So, I'll wait for you to come save me
And they'll wait for us to confess
And there's nothing here that ashames me
There is nothing here even left.