Proud flesh masons put their work on display
So masochists can gaze and stain
Their pants with the wine of life.
Grip hard and push to smite the poor devils
That too often will sink in the
Sick stuff that we bathe them in.
The endless paper chain is cut a certain way
And those ill wives that don't follow the line
Should've known the taste of bread before it was made.
Teach them all to eat right and drive right and shit right
So growing is kept in a physical cage,
With clipped and dull wings only for show.
The only way out is to bring them to Babel
And lead them astray so comfort becomes a detestable thing
That keeps them away from the hollow shell.
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