So pry yourself another set of lives, and wear your skin so thin it splits in time
Focus on the inside and tastefully you tell me that your life is worth more than mine
A fortune spent and wasted, you watch me try and suffer mine, a punishment in public
I'll scrape your grave, I'll mark it dead
Rebuild what's left behind
Reveal a second life that betters mine
And what is life left in crippled hands?
That clutch on notes, that have no worth, that stain and twist, manipulate, that mark and shame and
make a death more holy with spite.
So this is the modern shape. A nation dressed for its own wake. A gutter a ruined place,
An Island of broken men.
Wear your suits to work. Wear your suits to the grave.