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OLD FOES

OLD FOES

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Appetite

Composição: Kyle Rigsby.
I feel my fingers reach my mouth, I turn my head collapse and shout My spirits wilting and my flesh is caving in. I cry for help into the blue distress into a static view drown in turmoil as my eyes, Keep drinking in. My S.O.S. a flippant word from a scornful boy that speaks in verse And evades salvation until my reach exceeds its grasp. Return my head into its cell and calm nerves inside the well of luscious lies That drag me straight to hell. Flee to the shining city on the hill. Pray you last in the marathon, Until you cross the line On the day of trumpet sound. There’s a dagger in the hand of a babe. There’s venom in the cup of a friend. There’s fire in the belly of the kind, eroding until the end. Murder in the heart of the right. No end to the devil-appetite to satisfy the need. Now everybody feed. The passive Masses caught exposed, flooding rises past their nose. No more sanctuary, No more harbor for the blind. Faces turn from grace to greed, unsettling daggers as you lead. Consume it all, Until there’s nothing left to want or even need. I speak in hunger pangs, grind my teeth to razor fangs, Sinking deep to rip and tear, Can’t stop my heart if it’s not there. Every hand grips everything. Ears are deaf to tolls and rings. Now there’s red inside the rain. And what was sterling now is stained, On the shining city on the hill. Pray you last in the marathon, until you cross the line On the day of trumpet sound. There’s a dagger in the hand of a babe. There’s venom in the cup of a friend. There’s fire in the belly of the kind, eroding until the end. Murder in the heart of the right. No end to the devil-appetite To satisfy the need. Now everybody feed. Wake and crave for every bite. Slave to slake your appetite.

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