a grinding narrative set on a razor s edge the culmination of a lifetime it stutters to a stop then crumbles into ruins bones held up by wire you don t put the gun in your mouth because you like the way that it tastes it s a testament to the will of man and the progress we have made a debt we all must pay bit by bit by agonizing pieces of ourselves to warlords and profiteers all huddled in dark masses xenophobes and killers bone soaked in blurry tears the matted grey of ashes a liturgy on our failings choke down a eucharist of flesh and tinny blood to find a fragile fleeting peace you don t put the gun in your mouth because you like the way that it tastes it s a testament to the will of man and the progress we have made in a sense we ve done our best to lay it all to waste so cavalier and so secure dressed in our sunday finest a debt we all must pay bit by bit by agonizing pieces of ourselves to warlords and profiteers all huddled in dark masses xenophobes and killers commercialized regret manufactured in the falsest pretense of sorrow those wretched fools you ll think all huddled in dark masses ripe for the taking sycophants and slaves crawl back from whence you came tormentors lie in the bed that you have made suffer the fools in silence let your actions speak for themselves because actions speak for themselves a grinding narrative set on a razor s edge the culmination of a lifetime