Will the oil that we crave sink into our veins and then replace
All forms of grace?
We are masochistic forms of disaster
With the dignity to swallow everything that we see
But the pride in our teeth
Heart of gold
Heart of gold
Heart of gold
Can the sun beat me down further then six feet in the ground?
Cause when the sky has dried and words of men ceased
Where will your soul rot and will it find peace?