Is our future grey as the slabs on our drives?
Are fortunate and fate hidden between our thin lines?
Been pining a place on this earth,
Behind the tasteless old netted blinds.
The hand me down "lack of work".
Feeling enslaved to some dotted line.
We're tongue tied.
Tangled, enraged; the sign of the times.
And our palms,
Just read like a page from a novel gone wrong.
Are they spinning a yarn?
The lines on our palms.
Please tell me that they're wrong
They'll only cause harm.
The lines on our palms.
They're spinning a yarn,
And they're twisting my arm
The lines on our palms
We're tongue tangled and,
Enraged, dotted lines.
The signs of the times,
They read like a page from a novel gone wrong.
They're spinning a yarn
And twisting my arm
The lines on our palms,
Please tell me they're wrong
They'll only cause harm
The lines on our palms
They are spinning a yarn
And twisting my arm
Please tell me they are wrong
The lines on our palms
If only we'd known that nothing is set in stone
There's no need to pay for some "charm"
There's nothing but psalms
The lines on our palms
If our future's gray as the slabs of our drives
By now you'd say we shouldn't read
The lines on our palms
