Each one is born but they're coming out dead
My hands spell words as they fall from my head
Like a confederate flag dad wreaks of his kin
With blood on your brow you'll cry your eyes in
Prison ghost starts to scream as they carry you out
And attrition keeps you wishing that they'd tear your mouth out
A sign on an inn is the shape when you die
And poor St. Lucia took a knife in the eye
And it hurt. It fucking hurt!
The great diseases of our time are a soundtrack to the system
With incendiary minds and the knowledge to resist them
We can body harvest hate and send a charge up the floor
And eliminate the causes worth fighting for
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