Texty:
Victory At Last The Confession

Slowly things, start to fall in - Place me in, your arms till the sun comes up, morning brings us glory tales of a new day. This fantasy, reality, say

Chorus] [Kno] Somebody dial 9-1-1 It's mass confusion, mass contusions At last we losin' Uncle Sam to a mass of tumors And that's the rumor at least,

The three dimensional professional projections of spectral light Connected from selection, air-tight The isolated, the decisive, victory stimulated The

The Listener] I carry my heart in a name-brand box with a handle A suitcase, briefwould be an over-exaggeration Many vandals have ravaged and torn at