I'm begging for my dreams on fractured, bloody knees.
Praying without belief to a God with no relief.
I've given all my time, and I think I've lost my mind.
You think me a disgrace as you spit in my face,
Teasing me with hope and feeding me only soap.
But I can finely see, there's nothing left for me,
Someone will take my place, I'm the last in this race.
It's the number laughing at me.