"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
