[ exp|0it ]

From the wombs of fruit we gather wood
Back-breaking tons on metal-grunge trays
Carted to that whirring place, far, far away
And the man tells himself that this is good

A bridge across the gushing serpent
Sinews of steel forged in furnace
Hissing machines spitting liquid malice
The jackal-headed priest screaming repent

The fog rolls into the graveyard
Embracing the wooden tombstones
None but the dread Silence dampens
She trods among the like a guard

The ivory head-piece with open beak
Rolls along the faded ravaged floor
Beaten like a cheap old whore
Decayed throat with which to screech.