Land of treason, waste no reason
We are breathing fire
We're packs of dogs
We're enemies of men, we are not desired
Our face show
We've grown cold, but
Have not conspired
Old hearts gone
The future's on-mother nations mired
I like a recepticle for the chosen dead
We find our bodies clawed
And with the scent of death
We find that we are not so very awed

Loyalties burned
The words our blurred, overturn your own
Walk like dogs and watch the doors
Have your other stone
Stop the toys that match disordered
Calculate the thrones
Feel the pulse descending
Decaying hallowed tomes
In the starving sense you worship
The nations of debris
You wear a coat of sewage
That you've never ever seen

The time is now, the vicious here
A stolen dinner code
The license of the savage land
That you've always sold
So bite the hand that needs you
And bless another coal
The virus never issues
From a cotton so very old
As the lights come down the guilty displayed nervous in a row
You wash your hands and start to climb
The ladder that you stole

Slip the latch-and spin the sword
The money lords are poor
Push the top that rolls downhill
Their sense of dream absorbed
Still the cat that breaks the night
Tie him to the core
Chase the virtues that believe
That what's right is scored
It's a senseless cash in of right for wrong
What's right is never gone
And left is just a bastion for the fools
Golden dawn

Copyright: BMG Rights Management
Writer(s): Darby Crash, Georg Ruthenberg