Orijinal sözler
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These guitars won't stay in tune.
These fists are raised against you.
These words refuse to rhyme.
These kids won't stay in line tonight.
Black eyes, white lies.
Tight pants and pin-striped nights.
Blood on our hands, price on our heads...who says romance is dead?
You think our days our numbered.
You think we won't resist you?
Your lies are dipped in gold.
The kids won't don't what we're told tonight.
