Slip out the back before those Handlers get to tight on you I light my own fires now I light my own fires now
Slip in this town like it was Measured to fit right on you We light our own fires now We lead ourselves into the night Oh yeah, I don't think I'll be held inside an ordinary cell Am I the escape or Am I the escape artist? I know, I know it's just a question of details
Or one of, Denial. Could all of this trip wire Cut so easy?
We'll just see
Cut the alarm before the Motion sets off its sensors We move in silence now We guard our secrets with our lives And cover our tracks so we are Protected from surveillance We move in silence now We lead ourselves into the fight
Into the fight Into the fight Into the fight
And all the saints Will rise again As sons of wealthy men Tear the whole world down before our eyes
And all the signs We should have read While we ignored the dead Will haunt us long after the last of us has died
Slip out the back before those Handlers get too tight on you I light my own fires now I light my own fires now
Slip in this town like it was Measured to fit right on you We light our own fires now We lead ourselves into the night
Why do you speak with that accent now? Everyone knows you're not from the streets. You went to prep school in Cambridge, With daughters and sons of the privileged elite. Their fortunes from shipping and industry, Their futures in yacht clubs and tails. So why do you speak with that accent now? Everyone knows you're moonlighting here. To avail yourself of your heritage, For a season or two in the sun.
Draw well from the funds in the trust, Thanks to the fathers of fortunate sons, For us it's a matter of charging the gates For you it's a matter of blood and connections
Of blood and connections.
So who do you fool with that costume now? Everyone knows you're not who you seem You've got a hard way about you For someone whose passage is already paid
By the sins and the schemes of your father And the infinite reach of his arm
Draw well from the funds in the trust, Thanks to the fathers of fortunate sons, For us it's a matter of charging the gates For you it's a matter of blood Drink well from your bottomless cup And bask in your good fortune For us it's a matter of charging the gates For you it's a matter of blood and connections So where will you be when you tire of the fun The escape, the charade, and your time in the sun I know everyone does their own reinvention But yours has a taste that's hard to swallow
And what will you tell of your tenure with us? Will you build yourself up, like the size of your hunt? If they're anything like what you've been telling us, Those stories will make true believers Of the chumps and the fools.
So why do you speak with that accent now? Everyone knows you're not from the streets.
News 
Market Data 
Discover 
AI
