Can’t sense, we cannot know what they’re going through over there,
Bodies dropping in the snow,
Russians marching everywhere,
It’s history that cannot be felt by tiny souls,
Inside the chest beats a plastic heart, pleasure is it’s goal.
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I got it on my TV,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) when I don’t feel a thing,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I get a little queasy when somebody tells me it’s only a game,
It’s sick.
The black man, he knows the score,
Tied to shores so strange and foreign,
Our bombs of war that scar the western front,
Our sense of history’s his heart in ruins,
We can’t sense, we cannot know what he’s going through today,
We still burn crosses on the knoll and drag his weary soul away.
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I got it on my TV,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) when I don’t feel a thing,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I get a little queasy when somebody tells me it’s only a game,
It’s sick.
Our trial is which car to buy,
Temptation is that extra desert,
In the land of orange juice you’re better off with the right kind of shirt.
But take away the naïveté,
Expose the sources of our fears,
We’ll run to missiles if we’re pushed that far,
Proceed to blow it all away.
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I got it on my TV,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) when I don’t feel a thing,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I get a little queasy when somebody tells me it’s only a game,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I got it on my TV,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) when I don’t do a thing,
It’s sick, (it’s sick) and I get a little queasy if somebody tells me it’s only a game,
It’s sick,
It’s sick.
