By the roadside shrine, there's a place,
Selling bouquets of cellophane.
That's where they meet in this desolate place.
And the more they see the more they stay.
Thrown like two winter roses
Into a broken vase.
They're playing the hand they play,
Caught in the game they made.
She puts her faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
He puts his faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
And his clothes are covered in dew
As she writhes in twisted sheets.
Feel the pulse and the power of you.
And what you see isn't what's underneath.
They're playing the hand they play,
Caught in the game they made.
She puts her faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
He puts his faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
She puts her faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
He puts his faith in the moment.
Outsiders.
Outsiders.
Outsiders.
Outsiders.
Outsiders.