Limits of the infinite

Have never been defined

A spirit lies in atrophy

In a state to late to unwind

Trophies on the back shelves

Procreating all our race



Ideals of our fantasies

On which all things are based

Collecting every prospect

Running through your tests

With manikin expressions

They end up like the rest

In glass booths they're wired

With needles in their flesh



They're pickled for posterity

And eternally refreshed

So link yourself to others

Talk yourself to sleep

It's all so superficial



No use for you to weep (seven times)



So place your trust in science

For it has come so far



Well, Necromancy lives forever

Preserved within a jar

(repeat six more times)



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