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As the lords in leisure play their age old game,
Down among the rot the wretched rise,
Not content, to clamber for the thrice split grain,
Or amass to fight the few fleet flies,
To the torch and sword like man approached Prometheus so long ago,
We climb Olympus corporeal,
We're the titans forged of flesh and bone, and sinew, born anew of ruin, wreckage, smoke
And rended steel, and endless wheel, the dreaded noun,

We want to burn it to the ground,
We'll strangle tyrants with their crowns,
We want to burn it to the ground,
Burn it all,

While the lines of blood dictate the complex creeds,
All the natural insight in sight dies,
There instead's a blossom; born an ego's seed,
And the breed of meager rot the vine,
When all your subjects are subject to agony,
Are you a King or a count,
There is a stake in the grandeur of gallantry
Rise up a fist,
with a knife to resist,
Be the bite to the wrist,
In the fight for a system, profound,

We have to burn it to the ground,
We'll strangle tyrants with their crowns,
We have to burn it to the ground,
Burn it all,
Burn it all,
Burn it all to cinder,

Flames consume the flesh,
Gains infumed in death,
Flames consume the flesh,
Wane will fuel the hexed.

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