It's sick

We cannot 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 this chest beats a plastic heart
And pleasure is it's goal

It's sick, and I got it on my TV
It's sick, when I don't feel a thing
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
He's tied to shores so strange and foreign
Like bombs of war that scar the western front
A sense of history leaves his heart in ruins
We cannot sense, we cannot know
What he's going through today
Men still burn crosses on the knoll
And drag his weary soul away

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 naivety
Expose the sources of our fears
We'll run to missiles if we're pushed that far
Proceed to blow it all away!