Fashionably Late

Passion bleeds, fashion leads
No, you can't make smoke without fire
How do you do what you do? Do what you do without love?

My disease, causes me to treat everyone like a saviour
Why do you do what you do? Do what you do to me?

You've all been been signalled, everyone is on edge
But it's all up in the air like your false smoke
This isn't the first time baby, but it's the last
There's no one to save you now and maybe there never was

Let go of the expectations your peers have set in stone
One less sheep isn't something to mourn for, we all look better in black

Take tar to your wool
Give 'em something to talk about
This is much more than a statement
This is reality

Role models made of shit, artists forced to swallow it like poison

Raised up like golden gods, few will see their careless flaws
This is a sickness, we are sick

We are sick

Role models made of shit, artists forced to swallow it like poison
It's poison

I'm sick to death with everything that I see
Pop up stars considered artists, try to cut them, they won't bleed

Watered down with no attempt to be clean
Sitting high on gifted bodies, setting fire to the scene

Passion's bled for the last time