(no subject)
The streets lined with lights
Thirty feet high
The ruins of our future lives
Our lives are walled with lies
Ground to the sky
That ruin our future ties
Someday we'll be dust
With these stones behind us
Shadows of past filling the back
Pushing us forward way too fast
I put the past with the road
Lost behind me, miles ago
Shadows of my tire brands
Will be left across these lands
Take my hand
And we'll flee across these sands
The art of killing
The sport of war
We come in the name of giving
To take a little more
We'll sell your peace
A dollar fourty-four
We'll sell you arms
And cut them off short
And it's your choice what to do with them
Kill a hundred innocent men
There's no blood on our hands
The art of living
The sport of keeping score
Watch these maps give way
Lines across a board
We'll sell your faces
As murderers and whores
We'll sell you your places
After you beg at our floors
And with our scraps
Our shadows of the past
You can make your world
Will keep it under wraps
No pre-emptive attacks
Until it's profitable for sure
Wednesday afternoons
Trickling slowly,
Still over too soon
I woke up today
And my head was gone
Could have sworn I'd screwed it on
Rise with the sun
No thoughts,
Just automation
I woke up today
In a bed that's not my own
Could have sworn I slept at home
I don't blink
I don't think
Just another day
I don't need
I don't plead
Just another day
Can't say I'd mind some company...