Hey! We cannot sense, we cannot know What they're going through over there Bodies dropping in the snow Russians marching everywhere It's history that cannot be Felt by tiny souls Inside this chest beats a plastic heart And pleasure is it's goal
1. It's sick, and I got it on my TV It's sick, when I don't feel a thing It's sick, and I get a little queasy When somebody tells me it's only a game (IT'S SICK) The black man, he knows the score He's tied to shores so strange and foreign Like bombs of war that scar the western front A sense of history leaves his heart in ruins
We cannot sense, we cannot know What he's going through today Men still burn crosses on the knoll And still drag his weary soul away
Our trial is which car to buy Temptation is that extra desert In the land of orange juice You're better off with the right kind of shirt
But take away the naivete Expose the sources of our fears We'll run to missiles if we're pushed that far Proceed to blow it all away!