Common Dead - No Saint
                    	
                    Damning bodies fleeting of souls
                    Follow brainless teachings of old
                    In hopes of owning masses
                    Spitting venom, calling it "faith"
                    For twisted, sick ideals
                    Their book becomes a crutch and a shield
                    Their theory in the role of a sword
                    How dare you point the finger
                    You got nothing on me, and you, sir,
                    Are no goddamn saint
                    You're no saint
                    The fallen always victims to tease
                    You hide with false security
                    Prepared for your deception
                    Some will never believe
                    The tricks you're crawling through
                    Again the fates have proven it wrong
                    Irony has finished the job
                    In my time or another
                    Your entire plan of control
                    Will only bring you hell
                    Through history it has always shown
                    Your time to own up
                    Is right fucking now
                    Captured, convinced as a child
                    That way, you never outgrow it
                    Demand your new birth in freedom
                    Their book becomes a crutch and a shield
                    Their theory in the role of a sword
                    How dare you point the finger
                    You got nothing on me, and you, sir,
                    Are no goddamn saint
                    You're no saint