Anarchy boils beneath the porcelain veneer,
the flames lick at the feet of the iron heel,
it is left untainted, but it's hot as hell within,
the breath's coming out cloudy and black,
we're all coughing up slime
it isn't ours,
but the premise is something we've
all thought up.
So say your pledge and dream it all up,
for the day of reckoning that's yet to come,
the day that doesn't exist.
Praying to the god none of us believe in,
but we still beg of it.
Give us something more, the days the
the devil abhors.