Tekster: Napalm Death. Fear Emptiness Despair. Twist The Knife (slowly).

Gut level, below it all
Off duty, just here

Feeling like a knife's being twisted
In the hole of how it is
False hope, an inch of pride that died
When I left to hide

From the non-stop battering
Of conditioned opinion
Rest assured but not assured, all is well
But I think we've dealt with the fear
For far too long

Unborn suffer, unborn suffer
Unborn suffer the norm

Born to this, I thin not
I stand against
Till the shit drops

We see all but do nothing
In the hole of how it is