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raised among insects
turning cheeks and turning the wheels
i feel their pulse thru a cold wall
of scorn
harbouring a grim hope
for woe that comes their way
a trance of disgust made flesh
here falls the hammer

the idea cracks the old skin
as they seek to weaken its frame
the grudge, rooted deep, it's rigid and cold
each waking brings the same haunting vision of
the key

igraj, pičko!

comfort blooms at the gallows end
steaming guts enrich the earth
driven into the aeons of hunt
i'm carving down their names

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Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.