A grinding narrative set on a razor's edge
The culmination of a lifetime
It stutters to a stop then crumbles into ruins
Bones held up by wire

You don't put the gun in your mouth
Because you like the way that it tastes
It's a testament to the will of man
And the progress we have made

In a sense we've done our best
To lay it all to waste
So cavalier and so secure
Dressed in our Sunday finest

A debt we all must pay
Bit by bit by agonizing
Pieces of ourselves
To warlords and profiteers

All huddled in dark masses
Xenophobes and killers
Commercialized regret
Manufactured in the falsest

Pretense of sorrow
Those wretched fools, you'll think
All huddled in dark masses, ripe for the taking
Sycophants and slaves

Bone soaked in blurry tears
The matted gray of ashes, a liturgy on our failings
Choke down a Eucharist of flesh and tiny blood
To find a fragile, fleeting peace

Crawl back from whence you came, tormentors
Lie in the bed that you have made, suffer the fools in silence
Let your actions speak for themselves
Because actions speak for themselves