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