There is no acoustic truth

Only the "saviours of our youth"

Resonating bodies all

With no support they break and fall

Visions of a platry few

Concocted into a human stew

The stew, it simmers, but still hot

Remains a giant melting pot

In the pot we wiggle and writhe

Looking like worker bees in the beehive

There is no reasoon for recreation

So we do the dance called self-mutilation



Political ambition lost

We sow the seeds and reap the cost

Firing threats until we're red

>From our toes up to our heads

Threats once fried, return again

Some we keep and some we send

Why dance at all when we're dancing in hell?

Why dance at all when we're killing ourselves?

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