Be something that amounts to nothing the threatnA wrecking ball plowing through our karmanWe have no confident voice in our ears for tonightnExist in memory only headlinennWe have been through change, by the season of the stormsnIt's irony, the cleansingnExcept eccentric faith, to need religion to sit highnAmong the elect on march the saintsnnThere's no such thing as a good time for bad lucknAs minutes turn to distressed fragmented momentsnReading lips unable to hear the talknPartake no tangible out in tomorrownnWe have seen the change, from the season of the stormsnIt's irony, the cleansingnWith all our lives at stake from at rest to present are sitting highnAmong the elect on march the saintsnnMarchnMarchnMarchnMarchnnWe have been through change, by the season of the stormsnIt's irony, the cleansingnExcept eccentric faith, to need religion to sit highnAmong the elect on march the saintsnnOn march the saintsnOn march the saints