the munitions in your kitchen are parlor talk

and when tinted and printed, there's genius in the doublespeak

we're all in stitches over makeshift surgeries

held in contempt after your straight-faced perjury

from cribs to crypts and hid behind my lips

if there's a fault they will search you out search you out

because they're dying at their desk jobs



bite the hand that feeds

your basic needs, baby it's the cannibal in me

sanctified knife-play with what sleeps in the streets in your sheets by day



forensic(k) to your stomach

this DNA redecoration

on your office wall

you have murdered their darlings

because they didn't have the entrails for the job



(1, 2, 3) underwater waltzes in our concrete dancing shoes



bite the hand that feeds

your basic needs, baby it's the cannibal in me

sanctified knife-play with what sleeps in the streets in your sheets by day



and some can't see the clouds for nightfall, and some can't see the night for eyelids, and some are happier than others



flash one two three flash one two -- it's closer.