Est-Ce la Mort?

This feeble scheme, the complex
Fiscally fond sheep in dejected mock love
But with only lucrative darts
Considering they land on the board
Will the people cry, "what mores?"
Stapling itself to every partisan angle of
Order
A cold cash culture deserts us in the communal
Profane cinders...
Cornered in a loop of rainy, ugly, brokenness
Until the spending bends
Its a limp evil that pines
Without filling the sullied bowl, the reliced beast would starve...
We idle in adorned time
We succumb, are humbled, and numb



Credits
Writer(s): Kevin Kumetz
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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