Home of the oaks and the weeds
And the trash that will cover us given any time
Stranded at the tournament soaking up blood
Nourished by the black art of the palace floor
Charging up the hill into machine guns
With a plumed helmet and a broken sword
And the ice, sewage ice,
It’s selling like hot cakes additive slime
Herded to a yellow tape cordoned off place
We were just conscripts forced to wield arms
Lining up the pit with pointed sticks,
Drive them men downhill into the pit
Beast of carthage makes his call
A carrion smell in the foreman’s yard
Climbing up the digisite just for some
Asshole named Halliwell on the phone for you