"We're not just going to shoot the bastards We're going to cut out their living guts And use them to grease the treads of our tanks We're going to murder those bastards by the bushle"
Released into the atmosphere The sky is rotten left Choke on the isolation Infection reflected Symbols of diplomacy are signs of weakness from above Instants time a thousand cultures turned to dust Horizon strewn with unmarked graves, a solace reached in self exile Luxuries of the depraved are all left to rot A lapse of bitter freedom With immortality impaired Picked clean by innovation and despair Afflicted cities erased from time Nerve gas caresses exposed skin Omens in tank tread impressions Intentional conflict was kindled Without insult or injury To cull this human flood All you have to do is breathe The solution is faultless A truth upon which we can all agree Trample the weak Hurdle the dead Released into the atmosphere The sky is rotten left Choke on the isolation Infection reflected
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