Is our future grey as the slabs on our drives? Are fortunate and fate hidden between our thin lines? Been pining a place on this earth,
behind the tasteless old netted blinds. The hand me down \"lack of work\". Feeling enslaved to some dotted line. We're tongue tied. Tangled, enraged; the sign of the times. And our palms, just read like a page from a novel gone wrong. Are they spinning a yarn?
The lines on our palms. Please tell me that they're wrong They'll only cause harm. The lines on our palms. They're spinning a yarn, and they're twisting my arm The lines on our palms
We're tongue tangled and, enraged, dotted lines. The signs of the times, they read like a page from a novel gone wrong. They're spinning a yarn and twisting my arm the lines on our palms, please tell me they're wrong they'll only cause harm the lines on our palms they are spinning a yarn and twisting my arm please tell me they are wrong the lines on our palms
If only we'd known that nothing is set in stone there's no need to pay for some \"charm\" there's nothing but psalms the lines on our palms if our future's gray as the slabs of our drives by now you'd say we shouldn't read the lines on our palms