"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