I'm not sure what's worse
The waiting or the waiting room
"You're next, sir" becomes cruel taunt to you
Recycled air, the smell of sleep and disinfectant
Your God is a two door elevator

Do they even cure you?
(Cut me open, drug me) or it is just to humor us
(Repair all my defects) before we die
If only we could heal ourselves (whoa, whoa, whoa)
We wouldn't need to be hooked up to these machines (whoa, whoa, whoa)

Let's redefine
Let's redefine
Let's redefine
Let's redefine
Let's redefine
Let's redefine
(What it means to heal)

Do they even cure you?
(Cut me open drug me) or it is just to humor us
(Repair all my defects) before we die
If only we could heal ourselves
(Whoa, whoa, whoa)
We wouldn't need to be hooked up to these machines

Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Whoa, whoa, whoa

Copyright: BMG Rights Management, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Writer(s): Chris Steele, Dallas Green, George Pettit, Jesse Ingelevics, Wade Macneil