100 Cups, Pt. 2-PNC/David Dallas/Jordache/Pieter T

In city shoes, Of clueless blues, Pays the views, And no-mans news. Blades will fade from blood to sport, The heroin's cut these fuses short, Smokers rode a colonial pig, [Smoke is rolling colonial pink,] Drink and frame this pain i think. I'm melting silver poles my dear, You bleed your wings and then disappear. The moving scenes and pilot lights, [...pyre lights] Smithereens have got 'em scaling heights. Modern times come talk me down, And battle lines are drawn across this town. Parisian boys without your names, [...with obscure names] Ghetto stones instead of chains, Talk 'em down cause it's up in flames, [Talk me down...] And nothing's changed. Parisian boys without your names, [...with obscure names] Riot like 1968 again. The days of rage yeah nothing's changed, Well pretty flames. In school I would just bite my tongue, And now your words they strike me down. [But now your words have struck me dumb.] The flags are false and they contradict, They point and click which wounds to lick, On avenues this christian breeze, Turns it's heart to more needles please. Our eyes roll back and we beg for more, It frays this skin and then underscore. The case for war you spin and bleed, The sales you feel screensavers feed, The girls you breed the soaps that you write, The graceless charm of your gutter snipes. The moving scenes and suburbanites, And smithereens got 'em scaling heights. Modern times come talk me down, The battle lines are drawn across this town. English boys without your names, [...with obscure names] Ghetto stones instead of chains, Hearts and minds and US Planes, Nothing's changed... And english boys without your names, [...with obscure names] Riot like the 1980's again, The days of rage yeah nothing's changed, More pretty flames.