The Good Life. The Moon Red Handed. Zeneszám

Tell me, dear
Is there anything you'd like to hear?
One last song before we disappear?
Some broken-hearted ballad
Built for two?

By the way
It seems my notebooks have all been misplaced
(Those scribbled poetries of yesterday)
They've no more effect on me
These dead feelings

The songs we don't sing
Are the hardest to hear
Words left unsaid
Words we wish we'd forget
The guilt slips from our lips
Confessions hidden behind eyelids
Would you look me in the eye
And tell me
Does the moon weep at dawn?
His brilliance exposed
By a fierce and burning sun

The songs we don't sing
And don't want to hear
Words left unsaid
Well, they're only words
We lick the guilt from our lips
We make confessions from fertile hips
And never look them in the eye