they are pouring in,
one by one,
how about them,
they do things,
just for fun,
This place is flooding,
a wave of bodies,
one mile high,
this place is flooding,
noise mutilates,
the silent sight.
We writhe and struggle,
while the cement sets,
pinned down by regrets,
we writhe and struggle,
but they've glued our nest,
one taut mass of stiff unrest.
How about them,
building bridges,
to our solitude,
how about them,
building bridges,
mocking our ineptitude,
burning our effigies,
chopping sacred tree's,
pissing and fucking,
making something,
out of everything,
making something,
where once,
there was sweet nothing.
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