These they narrow the eyes,
and turn the ties that bind,
into wars that blind.
An eye for an eye, for the other eye
you know what I mean,
you know what I mean.
What drives them,
what drives him,
what makes you want to be driven.
These are the needful things,
they cannot go away.
These are the hateful years,
the wretched tears,
of bodies washed in from the sea,
entire nations set to bleed.
Must it be?
It must be.
These years driven before the hot desert winds,
blown before the soot monsoon,
of smoke and furnace fiery blast,
an epoch swallowing it's last gasp.
You know what drives it.
You know what it drives,
you drive it yourself every day.
These are the burning days,
or soon to come in many ways,
when all the sleep we've learned to sleep,
purchase, to dream,
dream that noxious seething colorless green,
that circulates in veins unseen,
the whisper willow network that binds the world.
For whose good, our lives our hurled.
The spinning silent of the magnetic trail,
that crashes, and sometimes fails,
and it fails us even know.
You know these drives are,
you know what drives them,
you are driven before their microtic wind.
We are the forsaken ones,
the generation chained before begun.
Whose older people shake and fear,
but whose time is up, before the year.
Come starve with them in distant lands,
watch the rice grains slip through bony hands,
see how so many die from our commands,
from lush tropic green, to desert sands.
Know that all the gleaming spires we've built.
Are welded to our fate, by the arc of guilt.