i bore my soul like a hole to the core of the earth where i was born
i was born on the third day of man i was born of the dirt and the sand
we’re both made from clay but he’ll possess a soul on that day
i asked for less, eternal life for my land
so externally i am same as man, internally i’m just organs
a mind of my own, a heart and bones, a carbon skull
i am a man, i am a golem, i am a man, i have no problems
i understand the way the world works, i’ll live forever
until the world’s burnt up our ties severed
with the galaxy, we’re all family, and on jupiter
they laugh at me, and on saturn, they laugh at me
and on mars, they laugh at me, and in the sun
well they’re ok, because, they’re the same way, we’re just
immortals, so immortal, so immortal, so immortal

we’re walking graves, our saving grace
we know the way armageddon goes
we’re the talking dead, our saving grace
we speak in riddle we speak in poem

Freak of nature i’m a Judas i’m among the students
and the scholars of the parlors and the gardens of forgotten
and the confines of the common man are awful and rotten
and the packages and slabs of meat
and baggage and cracks in seats
and packs of people and tragedies
and drag the needle, and drag the needle and drag the needle and
don’t drag your feet
and purity and insecurity are so close
and purity and insecurity are so close
and i’m closer
and i’m closer
for the people that tore the steeple down
that burn the building that burn the church
and we’re all fleeting a bit disturbed
a bit of victims a pinch of earth
a pinch of salt and a pincher
a pair of needles
a pair of needles
a pair of eyes
i’m paralyzed
with the fear of a vengeful god
and with the tears of a vengeful god
and with the fear of a vengeful god
and with the fear of a temple lost
and i’m lost in ego, caught between those
awkward people that are so see-through
and are so eager to often please you
and drop the needle and drop the needle and drop the needle and
drop the needle in
drop

we’re walking graves, our saving grace
we know the way armageddon goes
we’re the talking dead, our saving grace
we speak in riddle we speak in poem

i’m a shell of a man, my round is spent
i’m intelligent and, so down to earth
i’m a poor excuse for drinking
a poor excuse for wine
a good time to be had
by all those aligned
by all those benign
by all those malign
by all those that i’m
forfeit

accounts closed, people far
away from here
the balance remains, a bit bizarre
get away from here