V doesn't need to press the detonator on Parliament,
It's already crumbling; the pillars of it's institution are falling, democracy is dying, disorderly conduct is rising,
The Bullingdon Boy is tantruming, he wants his own way, a ruined economy for his autonomy.
Take me back to yesterday, to where today's problems never came,
I have no originality, no spark of creativity, my newness is a product of all that has been made before. I am a man, trying to cling onto the things he loves, before his hands become wrinkled and age disables him from truly grasping the freedom that passion brings, honesty is what I breathe.
They speak of walls as though there's purity in division, as though walls can't be climbed, that they can't be damaged,
Who needs saving? Because I can't save you. Saving you is like pulling something out of molten tar, it strains my weakened arms. I'm desperate to pull you from that black oozing mass, yet my heart brakes, and I fall further in.