I wish you hadn’t held up your chin so high
Too bad that you bumped your head on life
I heard that amnesia frees the mind
But baby those chains are still tied to mine.
And why is it
That the good ones never fly,
And why is it
That you told me I was fine.
(I’m not fine. I’m not fine. I’m not fine.)
I heard that that the weather report was good
But I don’t trust authority, and I don’t trust my mood.
Youth is the key to imagination and
Old age is a metaphor for bad intention.
So why are the young ones sacrificed?
And why is it
That the good ones never fly
And why is it
That you told me I would shine.
(I never shine. I never shine. I never shine.)