The Collection - Art of Dying lyrics

d**h sits inside his office as we wait for the verdict He speaks our fate with a nervous tick; do we get the cure or the sickness? And when we die, what will it be - a graveyard grave, or a golden fleece? And will we fight or will we flee? Will you still have faith in me? I walk down the golden stairs and pray, again, the skeptics prayer My grandpa is still sitting there asleep with a book in his red chair I'm a father, and I'm a son, and I do not own any guns I hope d**h don't come from my hands so I can die a peaceful man Can't we say that we won't know a single thing until the day that d**h itself is cast away And I believe there's nothing left to mar I don't know where I stand, but when I fall, its not too far I hope you're running down the road with a golden ring and a purple coat To meet me when I pa** through d**h with my brother and the fattened calf I can't see what it will be until my real name comes to me I can't see what it will be, so dance with me until I sleep