we celebrate the cultures that we killnthey are a roadside toursit trapnwhen they should be an institutionnour science, that has poisoned usnon the inside and outnhas created more fear than any vengefulnprimitive godnour science, which we have acceptednso whole-hearted, forces us to definenwhat truly is a great mysterynwe reach out but we lack the embracenand we long for the embracenthere is no embracenwe have counted highnwe revel in the killnthe improv culture killnin the land of the great spiritnwe sit so comatosenwe live beyong, we dream beyongnwe do not know what is lostnsymbols of generations died, forced to benbought and soldnthis is the land, this is the landnthis is your landnwe have counted highnwe revel in the killnthe improve culture killnits the end, the heat of nightnour most solemn mysterynits the end, the heat of dancenour most solemn mysterynour most solemn mystery