Fever blasts, open ass, our handprints on the sand. Waterfalls on these dry lands all these landfills. Haven’t they robbed enough?
Empty space on every jail.
Welcoming committee. Some guy fell on their mess. It’s been a pleasure.
Haven’t they lied enough?
Be yourself, be a man, be a part of the fucking gang. Tie your hands, tie means sir, feel the luxury. Haven’t they worked so hard?
Vulture’s path, smells like rats, you feel so lucky for a blast. Empty flats on their hands for a brother in law.
Haven’t they laughed enough?
These walls, this feeling that everything is over, a fixed compass that will show our path,
A sound, sensations that a murder is alright.
Their rules made to kill our plans.
It’s time, feeling that everything matters in order to stay alive.
feeds for ,