Antland
Waves spit on my memories
and flies lick remains like salt on cliff
swallowing desolation's wan stains
and skies without any prayin'.
You have generated just this:
eyes which float on cages and black tones,
settlin' on to paltry customs
while humans are going to dance.
Now you’re just the king of the silly ones
crown slips out of your head as if it were snow
So you’re just the lord of the losers and
your sceptre gives in without a lament.
Frenzied worker ants all lined up
bow in front of ghosts an’ gods,
heavily made-up golems
smiling from rotating chariots.
But a shadow comes in
breaking through the wall of truth
while that fire is eating its flesh
passing through roads and nerves.
Well you’re just the king of the foolish one
crown slips out of your head as if it were snow
Oh you’re just the lord of the wretched and
your sceptre gives in without a lament.
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