Would You Be Impressed?

Would you be upset if I told you we were dying?
And every cure they gave us, was a lie?
Oh, they mean it when they say we’re dead and doomed,
and every single symptom brings us closer to the tomb.
and who will take, the credit for our fast approaching fall?
Because its not, my, fault.
Now you’re upset because you finally got the notion,
that everything is spinning down the drain.
Oh! Do you mean it when you beg and pray and plead?
Your «give it to me» all those things we need.
And what, pray tell, will you whimper when your number is called?
You’ll say, «It's not my fault!»
I had a dream last night that everyone was trying,
subconciously I knew it was a lie.
And when I woke, I knew that it was time for me to pray,
to make ammends, before the end, before my judgement day.
I looked around, I stood alone, I knew what I had to say.
I said, «It's all, my, fault.