From the left shoulder of a nation; from skies lacking the mechanisms of death; from the burdened bellies of wrought iron angels we come, we drop. Were bombs
And were inhordes of us, scraping over the walls
There is no darkness so deep that we cannot paint it present.
There is no cause so bleak that we will veil in vain.
We are the rains army, dispatched in vein and we course
Dead eyes run through. Ink and pigment splattered on barren ground.
Swords aloft. Screaming battle cries in all tongues lost.
The old blood boiling over timeless ideals.
We are staining every soul present enough to look up.
Go home scarred and tattoo the sound all over your body
For these sun-dipped blades herald brighter spirits coming
Once that gray lump you call a head is sliced clean off.
Once a benevolent president tears open your cheek
A tongue will come flopping out.
It will lay on the ground licking brown slush off our frozen streets.
Then it will die. Your love curdled already besides.
I'll kiss your hand, but you won't see the smirk beneath my lowered eyes.
Nothing-king get wise: all my children are carrying knives.
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe.
More people more free more heat more live.
More voice more feet more song more rise.
More echo more cloud more test more sky.
No quarter no vote no power no vice.
No king no vision no womb no right.
More signal more move more center more light
More pressure more fire more peace more vibe
How about a little warhead in your abdomen? Ooh! How about a stain? How about armada is to javelin what battle is to game? Oh inverted world I'm thinking Nobel Prize, because the marriage of pre-emption and commercethat was mine. I prefer a phallus to a circle every time. I prefer to make a beat that wipes a village from the map. I prefer a fallen payload when it's dancing on your lap. Are you perverts having fun yet? it all comes out gray and matters less with each sunset.
Here come a bomb. The sound above language. The sound off-kilter with casualties pending. The sound of patented death. The action-packed ending. It's not sarcasm. Were training eyes. Hands where we can see them. xxx in the sky. Asinine lies for assassins in need of motives for making that human ink bleed. Champions, fly.
Calling all living. Affirming all dreams
Screaming all hell. As real as it seems.
Rescind those explosions. Get up off toes.
Kids are at attention tending towards prose.
Smolder at shows, shoulder all comers.
Dirty old bushmen your season is waning.
Sorry about peace big xxxxxxx bummer.
Ignite a new kind of soul fusing father and mother.
Here come the heatnuclear summer.