These words softly spoken into an empire's ear These days are on fire These days are on fire
In the last days of Rome We live under a hanging cloud
And we come up short but these roads take us anywhere past
Words screamed from atop a precipice to a waiting populace These days are on fire These days are on fire
In the last days of Rome (all I see is badlands) We live under a hanging cloud Past the badlands past the blight there is a spot of good fortune These days won't mean a thing past (Grab the plowshares. Turn them to swords)
Past the badlands Past the blight Still breathing after the worst has left us
These days never meant a thing And we come up short But we come up with something At least so far.
