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Gatherers
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Crows
We built this congress on a burial plot
We send our love to the tune of an atom bomb
We're the calm and collected
We're the diseased percentage
Marching your children to the beat of an empty oil drum
Stay sedated
What is mine is never yours
There's no progress only cheap imitation
We're not so different, we're just cheap imitations
Where we draw our water is where we bury our dead
Leave us out to wander
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Everyday, everywhere is hell
You'll never know
You won't hear it coming
You won't hear it coming
You won't hear us come in.
No, no, no
Tied your body up and dragged you down.
Hung you from the capital for crows to come and tear you apart.
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