Population SlaveComposição: Kyle Rigsby.
Eyes fry unblinded, burned by visions far and true; Each soul is a vessel navigating towards a tomb. You set your metronome to the melody of endless stimulation. Grinding every nerve until you’re lost to all sensation. Speak no evil, speak no sense. Just make sure it rhymes. Then swell in tears that overflow From the lies behind the eyes. Cold old man, house built on sand, your soul is sold under worth. No matter what size your coffer, All dues get paid to the dirt. What I am, I have to carry with me until the day I fall. All together, hand in hand, collecting just to give away. Population… Slave. Professed; you second guessed. Trapped inside the mainstream mass. Live and buy before the face of Time, as his hands maintain his pace and pass. Never heed the bell that calls, like any emperor, you wilt until you fall. Life recycles through the ages as the pages turn. Like fields of grass that bloom to burn. Trapped inside a timeline, rising only to decay. Mindless, numb, and willing to succumb. To any hand, you bend and sway. Blend to the masses. Become the hive. New paint, same paradigm. Boxed and serialized. What I am, I have to carry with me until the day I fall. All together, hand in hand, collecting just to give away. Population… Slave. Population Slave.