Of all the things you hate the most
This echoes more above
Of all the wrecks you're loathe to watch
This paints em all up pretty
Of cold collapse, of comatose
Of sixty years of acclimation...
Sewn up, but cut up good
We'll s** the air the same as you
Do you love to run, do you love to run?
This coils up nice and tight around your ankles and screams hello
You saw them riflin' through your sh**
Take em out
We couldn't get out fast enough
We made our graves there