Den of thieves grow long in the teeth, it's a fly blown beaten horse;
Bellowing and haphazardly sowing schism and discord.
Bewildering debate,
Chattel naiveté,
And the crushing ennui of bastard mandates
Give their evil gravity...
Mark my words - the signified - will outlast the signifier this time...
UNTIL THEY ALL ARE STRIPPED TO SACKCLOTH AND ASHES
KEEP A WEATHERED EYE ON THE STALKING HORSE MASSES...
I'LL MAKE YOU FEEL IT...
Contrived behind the blind, they stalk and spoil fertile ground.
Pitching woo to ad hoc fools, their hideous pace resounds.
Their tongues belong
To someone else.
The fury of Oz,
A sheep skin pelt.
Their saber rattling is a crime of Oden...
We are souvenirs - of the kill - give me gut-rest for their prowess makes me ill...
UNTIL THEY ALL ARE STRIPPED TO SACKCLOTH AND ASHES
KEEP A WEATHERED EYE ON THE STALKING HORSE MASSES...
THEY'LL MAKE YOU FEEL IT...
They approach their quarry hidden in plain sight
As avatars for game you stand without fright
I'll keep my own council on who's wrong or right
They've been measured and found wanting and blighted
We've become...
Archipelagoes swallowed by a storm tossed sea
So we must...
Refresh the tree of liberty...
UNTIL THEY ARE ALL STRIPPED TO SACKCLOTH AND ASHES
KEEP A WEATHERED EYE ON THE STALKING HORSE MASSES...
WE'LL MAKE THEM FUCKING FEEL IT