feet touch dirt, hands touch the sky

clothes we made hang from a line

we've watched as siblings die and pray we never will

sing these work songs silently

melodies of a thousand years

add a new verse everyday

a tour bus passes now and then, glaring souls as black as night

spirits maimed and crippled could never understand this life

their sympathy is laughable, we are the wealthiest alive

the hotels keep crawling nearer

the hum of bulldozers grows louder

their work songs blaze like bugles in our ears

the sickness is ambition, an insatiable appetite

to put their flags up everywhere, to burn down and build again

can you hold these ashes, tell yourself it was really worth the price?

Plastic priests on