David was a boy, just a letch, A simple means of birth, oh so sick, Another wasted life, like so many before, But David wanted better, so much more
Post modern sycophants splice together new genes, ignorant of the irony creating wholes from incompletes. Can you hear them crying out? It's systematic
of a whole, Crusades We are roots, we are soil, we are leaves, we are souls Crusades Broad canopy from the tree, a decree, Blazon to the world we were
million eyes see the scions rise a billion sons. Apogee begun a trillion hidden lives, perihelion colored lines and scented signs lead us between what we combine afreet. I see the world with clarity hidden world
six million souls. I believe that one day all the stars in the sky will explode and it will kill us all, young and old, and we all wind up in the same
Innocent wives all alone with the knives put the kids to bed turn the world on it's head spreading wide to provide stick the madness inside come and
with all they can to take the rug from under our feet. Broken down and beaten down, another day will surely rise. What's the point in getting up? We
is there to do? When everything worth believing is so mysterious, what is there to do? When the only things worth holding onto in this world are diseased
The aid from down below means a descent from the highest high to the lowest low; a power to save the world is in the hands. At the root a moral decay
Rip the flesh with our gnashing teeth, The inside of the dying beast, From the book of Enoch, To the bible codes, We spend the final days still looking
You found the world with your eyes and set the struggle alight. I turned it back, black and white, so I could stay out of sight. We fight each other
to scratch your car, I want to fuck your wife, I want to break your life, I want to feel you snap, I want to hear you fucking crack. I don't like the world
Heaven and Hell in the hands, a spell to combine the Gods. Sublimate the odds, two globes divine, synchronize the lobes Vesica contained, consonance
you wait up Get your money nigga, fuck them haters Everybody complain about your time You ain't got none? Find a way to make it up later Cause I ain't
from wall to wall the severed hand preserved so well did he have involvement was there a killer in my house a product of oppression your world's fucked up
of albums For my son to page through, thinking daddy was a gun With a handful of heads that put me up til they had some samples from Ant, and faith in What the Fuck
