Working the Machine

Their connections to the cross begin
at their feet and extend to their tongues,
Bearing likeness to the regimented forming of drones.
Don't you shame the ones that moulded you,
that scolded you,
That clipped your wings as they unfolded to
prevent you flying too high,
Then blamed it on the sky,
So that you'll work until you're old enough to die.
False idols of concrete and glass.
Training grounds for the working class.
Embedded in their bones are
sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Your life is but a moment in history;
A single frame in the cosmic reel.
And what will fill your memory?
Working the machine.
Your life is but a moment in history;
A single frame in the cosmic reel.
And what will fill your memory?
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
Sticks and stones.
And what will fill your memory?
Working the machine.



Credits
Writer(s): Blain Fitzpatric, Blain Fitzpatrick, Dean Blackwell, Grace Baker, Simon Blackwell, Thomas Friggens
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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