[00:00.00] 作词 : Patrick Stickles
[00:01.00] 作曲 : Patrick Stickles
[00:03.64]
[00:07.30]Why do you do the things you've done
[00:11.42]
[00:12.20]And how dumb would you have to be
[00:14.89]
[00:16.85]To do them again like I know you're going to
[00:22.17]
[00:26.46]If you're the poet you say you are and beauty's in everything you see
[00:33.84]
[00:35.93]Then how can love exist in a world run by people like you
[00:41.20]
[00:45.13]Because when there's suffering you're there
[00:48.21]
[00:50.48]From southern trees you hang them in the air
[00:54.13]
[00:55.12]The world screams out in agony and you don't care
[01:01.19]
[01:04.17]But should the **** hit the fan
[01:07.10]I just pray you will not be spared
[01:11.07]
[01:12.81]**** you
[01:14.29]
[01:26.66]You took a heart with so much room for love
[01:29.44]And filled it with hatred and rage
[01:32.40]Until there was nothing left but for it to shrivel up and die
[01:37.15]
[01:38.73]People will tell you that if you don't love your neighbor
[01:42.29]Then you don't love god
[01:43.98]
[01:44.49]But no god of mine would put light in such unrighteous eyes
[01:48.94]
[01:50.17]Now the way we hold each other so tight
[01:52.77]
[01:53.28]Would look more like a noose if held up to the light
[01:55.89]
[01:56.48]Because we betray each other in dreams every night
[02:01.07]
[02:02.45]Now let's never speak of it again all right
[02:05.55]
[02:11.52]All right
[02:12.04]
[04:56.29]Even now I curse the day and yet I think
[04:58.57]
[04:59.11]Few come within the compass of my curse
[05:01.32]
[05:02.43]Wherein I did not some notorious ill
[05:04.78]
[05:05.37]As kill a man or else devise his death
[05:08.32]
[05:08.99]Ravish a maid or plot the way to do it
[05:11.99]Accuse some innocent and forswear myself
[05:13.82]
[05:14.82]Set deadly enmity between two friends
[05:17.27]
[05:17.87]Make poor men's cattle break their necks
[05:20.29]Set fire on barns and hay stacks in the night
[05:23.95]And bid the owners quench them with their tears
[05:25.86]
[05:26.66]Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves
[05:29.74]And set them upright at their dear friends' doors
[05:32.58]Even when their sorrows almost were forgot
[05:34.62]
[05:35.17]And on their skins as on the bark of trees
[05:38.23]
[05:38.86]Have with my knife carved in roman letters
[05:41.32]Let not your sorrow die though I am dead
[05:43.76]
[05:45.16]Tut I have done a thousand dreadful things
[05:46.93]
[05:47.72]As willingly as one would kill a fly
[05:50.36]And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
[05:52.09]
[05:52.75]But that I cannot do ten thousand more

作词 : Patrick Stickles
作曲 : Patrick Stickles
Why do you do the things you've done
And how dumb would you have to be
To do them again like I know you're going to
If you're the poet you say you are and beauty's in everything you see
Then how can love exist in a world run by people like you
Because when there's suffering you're there
From southern trees you hang them in the air
The world screams out in agony and you don't care
But should the **** hit the fan
I just pray you will not be spared
**** you
You took a heart with so much room for love
And filled it with hatred and rage
Until there was nothing left but for it to shrivel up and die
People will tell you that if you don't love your neighbor
Then you don't love god
But no god of mine would put light in such unrighteous eyes
Now the way we hold each other so tight
Would look more like a noose if held up to the light
Because we betray each other in dreams every night
Now let's never speak of it again all right
All right
Even now I curse the day and yet I think
Few come within the compass of my curse
Wherein I did not some notorious ill
As kill a man or else devise his death
Ravish a maid or plot the way to do it
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself
Set deadly enmity between two friends
Make poor men's cattle break their necks
Set fire on barns and hay stacks in the night
And bid the owners quench them with their tears
Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot
And on their skins as on the bark of trees
Have with my knife carved in roman letters
Let not your sorrow die though I am dead
Tut I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more