It’s Sick – Daniel Amos – letras

We cannot sense, we cannot knowWhat they’re going through over thereBodies dropping in the snowRussians marching everywhereIt’s history that cannot beFelt by tiny soulsInside this chest beats a plastic heartAnd pleasure is it’s goalIt’s sick, and I got it on my TVIt’s sick, when I don’t feel a thingIt’s sick, and I get a little queasyWhen somebody tells me it’s only a gameIt’s sickThe black man, he knows the scoreHe’s tied to shores so strange and foreignLike bombs of war that scar the western frontA sense of history leaves his heart in ruinsWe cannot sense, we cannot knowWhat he’s going through todayMen still burn crosses on the knollAnd drag his weary soul awayOur trial is which car to buyTemptation is that extra desertIn the land of orange juiceYou’re better off with the right kind of shirtBut take away the naivetyExpose the sources of our fearsWe’ll run to missiles if we’re pushed that farProceed to blow it all away!