As we breathe a new breath,
we **** off our descendants.
Casually walk on the street,
dust rises from their corpses.
An inability or apathy,
signs a warrant of death.
I hope we'll all be happy,
when we feed them to the four horses.
The Streets are littered,
with inability to care.
Like veins and capillaries,
one treads and fears to look.
Amongst the rabble is whispered,
a spark of retaliation.
Summon up all their abilities,
to get shot down at the pier.