Из альбома: Facing New York

We are the young men, we are the desperation
We are a nervous wreck, we are the anxiety
We are the broken coin, the begging boys at your door

Call me the wasted time, the aging adolescence
Call me a bad sign of everything that's to come
Call me the crooked line, the field of ice

And I know I must move on

We are the broken hearts that got lost or set astray
We are the unemployed, still tangled up in our dreams
This is a new sign, the last changing of the day
It's time to grow up, and move away

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