Crows کے بول

We built this congress on a burial plot We send our love to the tune of an atom bomb We’re the calm and collected We’re the diseased percentage Marching your children to the beat of an empty oil drum Stay sedated What is mine is never yours There’s no progress only cheap imitation We’re not so different, we’re just cheap imitations Where we draw our water is where we bury our dead Leave us out to wander Everyday, everywhere is hell You’ll never know You won’t hear it coming You won’t hear it coming You won’t hear us come in No, no, no Tied your body up and dragged you down Hung you from the capital for crows to come and tear you apart