A grinding narrative Set on a razor's edge, The culmination of a lifetime. It stutters to a stop Then crumbles into ruins, Bones held up by wire.
You don't put The gun in your mouth Because you like the way that it tastes. It's a testament To the will of man And the progress we have made. In a sense We've done our best To lay it all to waste. So cavalier And so secure Dressed in our Sunday finest.
A debt we all must pay, Bit by bit by agonizing Pieces of ourselves To warlords and profiteers All huddled in dark masses, Xenophobes and killers. Commercialized regret Manufactured in the falsest Pretense of sorrow. "Those wretched fools," you'll think, "All huddled in dark masses, Ripe for the taking." Sycophants and slaves.
Bone soaked in blurry tears, The matted grey of ashes, A liturgy on our failings. Choke down a Eucharist Of flesh and tinny blood To find a fragile, fleeting peace.
Crawl back from whence you came, tormentors. Lie in the bed that you have made. Suffer the fools in silence, Let your actions speak for themselves, Because actions speak for themselves.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
