Your words are made of gold. On a summer day, they fly up to the sun, and they're gone away. My words are made of iron. They pierce me through my feet, and hold me to the ground. I'll never leave. I'll never grow up, and I'll never grow old, but I'll learn how to bow down and do what I'm told. Your bitter, cold voice is so loud in my ear; god, I wish you were here, wish you were here. I know what it takes, to prove I never lied: if I kill myself right here, will you believe me? Well, it turns out I'm blind, and it turns out I'm weak, and that everyone's right to be laughing at me. A secondhand ring from a secondhand man, and I'll die in the street, die in the street.
