It’s Sick Songtext / Lyric

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



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 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 naivety

Expose the sources of our fears

We'll run to missiles if we're pushed that far

Proceed to blow it all away!