We are the young men, we are the desperation. 
We are a nervous wreck, we are the anxiety. 
We are the broken coin, the begging boys at your door. 

Call me the wasted time, the aging adolescence. 
Call me a bad sign of everything that's to come. 
Call me the crooked line, the field of ice. 

And I know I must move on. 

We are the broken hearts that got lost or set astray. 
We are the unemployed, still tangled up in our dreams. 
This is a new sign, the last changing of the day. 
It's time to grow up, and move away