Teksty: Chevelle. Antisaint.

Visit again wide infinte.
Who sent you two alone?
Shall we severe everything?
Ponder this while we ponder why.

He's starting to follow crows,
and climbing the ladder somewhere out,
to really begin to scare,
and plotting to cover the ground with a fight.

You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.

Nothing to say for the last time.
Just want to think it will.
Like a crowded affray in the cold,
slowly starts to show.

Assurance is what we need.
Hold the lion until it's fed.
We'll stand by in mourning,
like the fight surfaced.

You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.

The stakes are too low.
We may not need any.
Could we never feel?
And if you could tell,
the clever is dancing.
Was the lion by you,
lion by you,
lion by you?

You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.
You poor little antisaint.