If you've got the sun-wake-ups,
And the symptoms are well-known
Like a song that's sung in a mannered key
A figure walks alone
And he's how you begin
To describe secret sin
De's a fantastic, terrible lie
Off the shores of remorse
We plot another course
Towards a possible terse reply
He balks as if angels mock our seats
Of power and comfortable, lazy minds
Of the three future stars
That define our cause
I'm inclined to favor number 2
She's a broadcast of light
A subversive delight
A streak of red in a dead field of blue
And when Fate is alone
And laughing and turning
A mild cough into a touch a flu
We ignore the disease
Instead we feel so pleased
That the symptom has made it's debut
He talks as if angels mock our seats
Of power and comfortable, lazy minds