That Battle Is Over

What is it to take care of yourself?
What are we taking care of?
A million bedrooms with hands softly
Lulling our divine cocks and cunts
Without telling anyone, a million
Ships come alone out on the calmest seas
So are we loving ourselves now?
Are we mothering ourselves?

Statistics and newspapers tell me
I am unhappy and dying
That I need man and child to fulfill me
That I'm more likely to get breast cancer
And it's biology, it's my own fault
It's divine punishment of the unruly
It's fearfull out here on the calmest
Seas, we who grew up singing
Merry christmas! War is over!
Our mothers softly humming: We're at the edge of history

But, but I keep growing older, eight years since 25 now
And all that ages now is the body, is the body, body
I wonder why, I think to myself
One of these days everything
I write begins with the question:
What's wrong with me?
What's wrong with me?

You say I'm free now that battle
Is over and feminism is over and socialism's
Over yeah, say I can consume what I want now
Consume what I want now
This is what happens on the edge of history:
The great eye turns to us

We are the only thing that's aging
But we don't know it yet
We cling onto heaven
Heaven
Heaven
Heaven
Sleep tight forever
Sleep tight forever