Very little their sons they can do
On the run from the hell they will face
And they're beating, beating from their needs
Stretched out skin, heart burns the turnkey
And they're dying
What you read
Moments from the end
And they're dying
From their wine
Proof that they're dead
Whisper, you're feeding the brain
Information, what you read today
Olive oil, rubbed from the trees
Heard in the distance, Shotgun Memories
Banner air of angel's desperate wings
Boy these boys can fly
Brought together for the summer sing
Diplomas hang from the laurels they've achieved
Every man forgets their mastery
Pass the rage in their direction
Shoot the coils from your veins
Snap of faith with indecision
Load the gun, disdain the game
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