Your words are in front of me like you need my permission for the ruthless incisions you have in store. Yeah, I know this was written for my older sister…and, yeah, I know that you kissed her. That won't make her yours. Well I didn't really take the time to read your lyrics; just a cursory listen sitting in the waiting room. Coloured by where I was, you'd expect something to hit me…but illness as a metaphor means shit to you when you are sick for real. Oh, it's poetry, sure, and I know you're as deserving as you are self-serving. That I can't deny. So take another picture of our abandoned old squat. Yeah, take it and fuck off. This was our life. Chorus. You take what you need, you leave in your wake something that'll capsize as soon as you're away. You spill each purse to fill in lines to define some kind of other way. But democracy's not forged in 'sleep', it's made while holding each other up, and when you betray that, the things you need, I swear, they won't be there again. The things you need, they won't be there again.