Things are bad

There's no place for a stranger in your Paradise,
but your own keep on betraying you
and you take the stage, and you want to sing to us--
but the throat's sore, and it's no use
things are bad, pretty bad..

Soul is bleeding--for real, or for a sell?
to the heathens you're a prophet, but not to your kind
maybe you are scum yourself, or maybe they are dumb--
you speak of Heaven and Hell, but thing are quite bad..
things are bad, pretty bad..

things are bad cause one for them all, your bread is stale and flat
and the words are like sand on your teeth, tougher to swallow than spit
things are bad cause this isn't really your call, and no other sin's as bad
since the concept is clear, and sense is noble--
but at first, you wanna make your hit
Alone against all, if all is not yours--"SURE!"--the deft devil obligingly says
drop of blood is just a little cut, and then you got a pact
there's no truth in the world, and every thought is false
and one on one against the whole world, you raise your sword
and no one will dare to stop this steel
and your judgment is meted, but someone will
cry for this pain that falls off stooping shoulders
things are sad...