Are you an extra perfect whatsoever When you get murdered Guide me to shelters of flu Two hits the six and it's summer on me Shouting, shouting, shouting I think God is moving his tools There's no crowd, no street, and no sun I want someone A shade is a tool, a device, a savior I sleep to try and look up to the sky But my eyes burn Oh God Shouting, shouting, shouting I think God is moving his tools There's no crowd, no street, and no sun Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Shouting, shouting, shouting
