Besedila: Smog. Knock Knock. Cold Blooded Old Times.

Cold-blooded old times
The type of memories
that turns your bones to glass
Turns your bones to glass


Mother came rushing in
she said we didn't see a thing
We said we didn't see a thing
And father left at eight
Nearly splintering the gate


Cold-blooded old times
The type of memory
That turns your bones to glass
Turns your bones to glass


And though you where
Just a little squirrel
You understood every word
And in this way they gave you clarity
A cold-blooded clarity


Cold-blooded old times


Now how can I stand
and laugh with the man
Who redefined your body


Those cold-blooded old times...