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Bird Of Ill Omen
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Play Dead
How can an intimate feeling between two halves
be evenly distributed down the middle
so precise you slice to work your magic
just a reminder plastic ankles melt faster
in your man made heaven
you create a comforting space for me to lay on my face
well i'm tired of tasting dirt
i beg for more fingerprints around my throat
your gold halo turns from rust to run
down the necks of the saved ones
trap me in your hands
save me
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suffocate me like the rest
sew my mouth shut
so i can only read your brainwashed theories
comfort my hands with rusty nails
punish my neck by hanging it from this rosary
all i ask is to see your face
to prove that you're not as white
as they make you out to be
fuck your blue eyed god
fuck this racist rule
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