The damage I've wrought, the death that I've brought, the pain I support, all makes a sordid mirth of my good intentions. For every 'yes' a thousand 'no's' and for every dam that I tried to built there is a promise of flooding and a memory of the ocean. Once I thought it for the best to never, ever give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up.
Hopelessly so, for every good reason just sounds like a bad excuse. O, I've grown weary of saying no, but friends it's all I've had. Only nails in flesh, nails in wood, a crown made of barbed wire. Still at the end of day all that remains is bitter shame of having survive by compromise as others die. Bitter shame.
Once I thought it for the best to never, ever give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up, give up, give up. I hope I die before the day when I have to give up, give up, give up. Give up. If you choose the burder is it still a burden, even if it taekes your life? The fool and the martyr are bred of the same soil. Who can tell us apart?