This conjecture comes sweet like vengeance,
Absolute to the words of the page,
Remark about the stage of grief we never leave,
Visceral emotions call to the passionate.

Hindered under the scorching sun,
Demand our heads to be ******,
Partial to the call of the political crisis,
Harrowing circumstances leave no room.

Line up, babes,
We’re all cardboard cutouts,
Against the merciless manifest destiny,
We’re all worth killing, babes.