Besedila: Smog. Accumulation None. 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 swirl
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...