Guilty or not, yet it hurts to break the rhythm.
I thought I had got the right clue.
No never, I was wrong.
I always hear them in their witness box.
Not to tell the truth, but to fabricate one.
Pieces of misinformation vow to make us wise.
Right or wrong, pleasant or irked, it remains all the same.
So I scream all day long, along with the running foot falls.
Along with all our ancestors dead or forgotten.
Alone in my hole, with fried dreams and drinking stale hopes.
Somewhere between the lines lies false prides to sing along.
Voice and the texture of history ever remain the same.
To crack a joke besides our witness box.
Sometimes the rhythm sinks,
Or sometimes we feel badly beaten.
Guilty or not, yet it hurts or break the rhythm.
Rhythm you believe makes you noble.
Gives you the key to unlock the heaven.
Guilty or not, it pays no dividend.