Last days of rome

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.