The lines of my earth so brittle unfertile and ready to die.
I need a drink but the well has run dry.
And we in the habit of saying the same things all over again
For the money we shall make.
This is the last song that I write
‘Til you tell me otherwise.
And it’s because I just don’t feel it.
This is the last song that I write
‘Til you tell me otherwise.
And it’s because I just don’t feel it anymore.
It should be our time. This fertile youth’s black soil is ready for rain.
The harvest is nigh, but the well has gone dry.
And they in the habit of saying the same things all over again,
about the money we shall make.
This is the last song that I write
‘Til you tell me otherwise.
And it’s because I just don’t feel it.
This is the last song that I write
‘Til you tell me otherwise.
And it’s because I just don’t feel it anymore.