I see you in the white palace. waving from the balcony. but I've been seen you in the dark street below. combing throught the garbage. fighting with dogs.
Dear Miss White. Oh, damn this night. Wouldn't believe how much it snows. In the summer heat. With red iron feet. You'll be nursing a bloody nose. . Princess Wrecked.
Say, I didn't have what it'd take. I sure showed them. How much difference. One man can make. . Say, I didn't have what it'd take. Now, they all bow. The ones that laughed then.
[Originally performed by Captain Beyond, written by CaldwellEvans]. . See the bright ship in the harbor, hey. Making iridescent waves. Need to try a little harder.
Me and myself. We're not one of you. We have an alibi. To always get through. . Me and myself. My mentor and guide. You're my tormentor. Always by my side.
''Mr. BALLONI'' words & music by ENRICO PIANORI. Entrance. COMING....I- IN EEEEEE....... COMING....I- IN EEEEEE....... COMING....I- IN EEEEEE. COMING....I- IN.
Mannequin mannequin. They're all the same. Deathstrike said so. Hallowed be thy name. . Morbid Angel. Napalm Death. Filthy Christians. Hold your breath.
Why does everybody dig the pain?. It feels good, real good. Why is everybody now insane?. Cocaine, so lame. . It's a sin, you can't win, heroin. You can't win, the shape you're in, my heroin.
Isn't it wrong and isn't is strange. That a man goes by the color of his face. And isn't it time we've drawn the line. And decided to become a human race, yeah.
Throughout these woods a flaming dress of hers. caress my soul as the morning mist will come. The voices make me feel how I am embraced. By ecstatic sounds of love that she gave me.
The minstrel boy to the war has gone. In the ranks of death you will find him. His father's sword he is girded on. And his wild harp slung behind him.
Marti was a fightin' man. Whose story should be told. He was a son of circumstance. He couldn't quite control. His father gave him pellet guns. And plastic hand grenades.
La dictadura de la belleza. De la mentira y de la edad. Y el dulce sabor del éxito en televisión. Todos somos artistas de mierda en potencia. . Himnos de esclavos.