Tekster: Trap Them. All Hands On The Medic.

Maybe the bombs look better from where you're standing
maybe the chronic fatigue and lifeless noon-times
are something you've been waiting for
but i don't see it like that
taking harm for health and blood for tolls
your three piece isn't war paint
and your polished vocabulary still doesn't get you to say what you want
so i stole your students
i gave them color in their faces and revolt in their steps
let them call out all of your officials with half truth blindfolds
and gave them reason to strip all of your system failed defense
took all of your lab coats and handed them to the frozen faces
in the dark alleys on these midwinter nights
lifted all your padlocked journals and plastered all the hidden antidotes
on every billboard that boasts your names,
your cancers, your invasion techniques
we offer shower for the victims
of your presence, your ultimate degradation
this is final
this is seizure