The enemy is subtle, how be it we are so deceived, when truth's in our hearts and we still don't believe.
One who sings with his tongue on fire, gargles in the rat race choir.
A cork screw to my heart, ever since we've been apart.
Gold will never free your father, the price, my dear, is you instead.
He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich.
Don't know which one is worse, doing your own thing or just being cool.