the collection – the art of dying lyrics
death sits inside his office as we wait for the verdict
he speaks our fate with a nervous tick; do we get the cure or the sickness?
and when we die, what will it be – a graveyard grave, or a golden fleece?
and will we fight or will we flee?
will you still have faith in me?
i walk down the golden stairs and pray again the skeptics prayer
my grandpa is still sitting there asleep with a book in his red chair
i’m a father, and i’m a son, and i do not own any guns
i hope death don’t come from my hands so i can die a peaceful man
can’t we say that we won’t know a single thing until the day that death itself is cast away
and i believe there’s nothing left to mar
i don’t know where i stand, but when i fall, its not too far
i hope you’re running down the road with a golden ring and a purple coat
to meet me when i p-ss through death with my brother and the fattened calf
i can’t see what it will be until my real name comes to me
i can’t see what it will be, so dance with me until i sleep
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