Torn torn between life and war, birth and disease
A father lies awake fighting his own sanity
Raise a kid on battle brains
Don a fucking cloak and rattle chains
Take your sicko with you and your broken plate stockings
40 Colors rust in a field of dead poppies
The difference between you and I
Is automatic lines and contingent lives
Dangerous minds misplace their lives
Lives, lives, lives
Lives, lives, lives
Lives, lives, lives
Six miles away lie the opium fields
The banker and mortician sign an appropriate deal
I'm a 50-year-old detective, they found you, they eat
As the militant is dispassionate, it's such an antique
I'm walking razor edged
You're treading through my pores
I'm leaning over the edge
To catalogue the reaper's art
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