The soil is boiling. Noxious fumes rise from fissures.
Ice cubes and air-fresheners Are thrown down from the mansion windows And we are expected to go to war.
To war, where we will get to be Harvested by machine guns, Throttled by creeping yellow-green, And drowned in ice While our blackened feet fall to pieces.
Blind old Nikolai Can't see the flames Burning behind thousand-yard-staring eyes Sunken into one hundred million hollow faces. Hollow faces etched into the night By the glow of mortar blasts And factory fires
He revels in ineptitude While our agonizing joy Is found in the next teasing grey sunrise As we seek to one day return To the torn and tear-dampened recollections in our pockets.
While a colonel weeps into a photograph, The wife of his brother weeps into a telegram As her cousin is getting his vocal cords clipped out in the streets of Petrograd And his father is being eviscerated upon factory
Yes, Nikolai; The soil is boiling And I will live, I must live If only to see the day That it crumbles beneath you.