Parading to the masses, we're coming so fresh to death I've been stealing looks from shadows you conjure with your purse Yeah, you're walking in stilettos, but your nose is bleeding out I've been running from the devil, but the devil's on my back I'm decreasing, took a leave of absence from the war If the wall is coming down, then we gotta press the pedal Got my hands up in the air, I'm saying I can't breathe I got my hands up in the air, I'm saying
Hey, man, get away from me Yeah, hey, man, get away from me oh yeah
Never ask for any favours, nothing I want from you I've been looking for an answer to keep me from falling through But I'm waiting for the voice to speak, 'cause I can't see I hope we'll hear the sound eventually
I felt their claws obstruct and refuse refugees in the new Rome Lock our voices in the oven like s-Sylvia at home My eyes are on the world, and my hands anxious to feel something real True colours tend to glisten and then reveal
Where's the love? And why are we so far from love?
Chased by badges, ducking lights Push the dagger when it's right Martial law, inshallah, mi casa es tuya Ghosting like I'm Daniel Johnston, and I'm locked up in the basement Where Satan lies in satin tweets and realigns his facelift The criminals are laughing with their empty, toothless faces We melted all our gold to recommence our idol worship We all pretend one day we'll be the greatest of the Gatsbys Growling mouths with rabies and loyal like Sid and Nancy
Hey, man, get away from me You pretend you got control Hey, man, get away from me
I never asked for any favours, nothing I want from you Well, I've been praying for an answer to keep me from falling through Yeah, I'm waiting for the voice to speak, 'cause I can't see Oh, we'll hear the sound eventually We'll hear the sound, we'll hear the sound eventually
Writer/s: Mark Foster, Isom Innis
Publisher: Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, DOMINO PUBLISHING COMPANY
Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind
"It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" was inspired by a dream where Michael Stipe conjured up images of people with the initials L.B.: Lester Bangs, Leonid Breshnev, Lenny Bruce and Leonard Bernstein.