Day Thirteen: The Protest Hour

Panic, what the fuck did they to do you?
With false alarms, with bulletins, and death cards calling out the murder suits?
Someone, anyone
Give the tremor his morning walk and buckle in the faulty legs of every faith in tyrant talk
Stencil on the window guards the epitaphs of cycled costs

Of humans on medicated regiments in every dilapidated dream that rockwell brought
I caught up with time when he was chained to the wall of a cellar vault
And they had hung him up and fed him anti-coagulants and cut the bottoms of his feet
And left him there to slowly drip into an incapacitated state

He had enough left to look and call out his dealer's name
The one who gave us drugs to take that never worked the same
And then he looked into the sermon fates and whispered out my way, "come close
The priests have ears that tell the blessed when to shine their fangs
To sharpen their spears that'd lust nothing more than to fuck our flesh
This is what they plan to do
Kidnap all the newborn babies and banish all the rest
They may have me here amongst rusted brakes and scissored veins
They may have stolen rooms and loves from runaway hotels and numbered all our graves
But no man of the state
No men behind these laws
No men of the holy fucking cross will drop me down on my knees, will bring us to our knees
You and I, we die as bastards of black belief
As the fucking deaths of godspeak"

And with that we spoke our battle lines
As eyes rolled back and legacies were struck
We sell our fiction souls
Our quiet worth and bathe in bloods of sacred trust
The throats of every leader grande and cold are there to be cut by our kind
And the frames of every worshiped build and murder front will burn retreat by us

"So goes the life of the targets, so goes the life of the torchbearers"