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Průměrné hodnocení:

Rain, like tin angels falling down.
LIke a mission and we're half-way there
From some old dried up fried forgotten town.
Why, won't they let us be ourselves?
With our potential we could toe the line
And show the bastards up with our divine
Light
Seize
All the records from the past
Hold for ransom all the artifacts
This ragged town protects them to the last
With Lies
See them running heading homeward to Seattle.
Deem
All the liars in your tribe
To be the fires on the western side
Of some old front we call the War of art.
Rain, like tin angels falling down
Like a mission and we're half-way there
From some old dried up fried forgotten town
From some old dried up fried forgotten town
To some old fried up fried forgotten town.