Old Media

To the news that was ripe with disease,
It's a sickness to say what they please,
As the sycophants tire of their worthless wind,
And realize they're plots far too thin,
As they've for the right side of an aisle,
With black and white thoughts of a child.
Saying,
She merely is,
And he must become,
They're wasting our time,
Talking off their tongues.
And seen on a screen,
Our life as we know,
It's cool as it comes,
And feels ten below.
Couldn't find the forest for the trees,
To the hear of the matter I mean,
As we bruise with the thinnest type of skin,
Do their pictures or words do us in?
As they vye for the right side of an aisle,
With black and white thoughts of a child.
Saying,
She merely is,
And he must become,
They're wasting our time,
Talking off their tongues.
And seen on a screen,
Our life as we know,
It's cool as it comes,
And feels ten below.
Couldn't find the forest for the trees,
To the hear of the matter I mean,
It's the deepest and darkest of seas,
It's the distance between you and me.
It's cool as it comes and feels ten below.
It's the new that was ripe with disease,
It's a sickness to say what they please,
It's the deepest and darkest of seas,
It's the distance between you and me.