Each one is born but they're coming out deadnMy hands spell words as they fall from my headnLike a confederate flag, dad wreaks of his kinnWith blood on your brow you'll cry your eyes innnPrison ghost starts to scream as they carry you outnAnd attrition keeps you wishing that they'd tear your mouth outnA sign on an inn is the shape when you dienAnd poor St. Lucia took a knife in the eyennAnd it hurtnIt fucking hurtnnThe great diseases of our timenAre the soundtrack to a system with incendiary mindsnAnd the knowledge to resist themnnWe can body harvest hatenAnd send a charge up the floornAnd eliminate the causes worth fighting fornOur incendiary minds