Lyrics

After London, the people that you penned
In institutions that spared them
Summoned comrades, campaigning "Death to God!"
For those they silenced before us

And still, Miller's own "Black Spring", like history, just buzzes in it's own hive
Like "A Season in Hell" is a mystery, above your hook and out of line
Above your hook and out of line
With this and more

Cold Boys
What would think of us
Don't believe you, I don't believe you at all

From the Bowery boys, to the present day
Through the crusades that happened anyway
I can't tell why, I don't how how it comes
That nothing matters before us

But still, Miller's own "Black Spring", like history, just buzzes in it's own hive
Like "A Season in Hell" is a mystery, above your hook and out of line
Above your hook and out of line
With this and more

Cold Boys
What would think of us
Don't believe you, I don't believe you at all