I’ll be a martyr for your indifferencenif you promise to line my tomb with trinketsnThere won’t be a resonating crynjust an awkward formal dialoguenbetween my ghost and those I’ve deniednWe want guarantees, not hunger painsnbut starvation just won’t subsidennSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenYou drift with every word they saynSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenI think we’ve lost our waynnYou told me what you stand fornThe sleepless crusadenThe bitter campaignnnIn every room that we walk innthe walls are skin and they’re writhingnoh they’re writhingnnIn every room that we walk innthe walls are skin and they’re writhingnoh they’re writhingnnSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenYou drift with every word they saynSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenI think we’ve lost our waynnYou’d be unwise to sate the urgenbut go ahead you wouldn’t be the firstnnIn every room that we walk innthe walls are skin and they’re writhingnoh they’re writhingnnIn every room that we walk innthe walls are skin and they’re writhingnoh they’re writhingnnSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenYou drift with every word they saynSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenI think we’ve lost our waynnSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenYou drift with every word they saynSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenI think we’ve lost our waynnSomewhere between the penance & the patiencenSomewhere between the penance & the patience