no more kind words
not one word of praise
the blood of the wolves
has washed away
those memories of better days.

no more sleek machines
their all rusting hulks and crates
the sweet strings are frayed
the beds been made
the chord's between the blade of fates.

Their teeth are poised for slaughter
the wheel of death has turned
our flowers choke on ashes
and how and where the children burn
its none of our concern

The best of the best
jumped ship like the rest
pigs gather for their feast
the deserts spreading, ever west
the great now kneel before the least

You might steal an hour of peace
even the devil needs to sleep
to rest his wicked head
So when the quick have all dropped dead
keep an axe beside your bed

Babylon is burning
and the firemen have fled