There's an address tattooed on the back of a young mother's bellynThat leads to an old condemned warehouse on Ivy and BlainenWhere caches of our enemies weapons sit crated and rustynEagerly waiting a chance to be used in our namennAnd this is the shieldnThat protects their machinerynAnd these are the hallsnWhere their juggernauts baitnAnd these are the bladesnThat will shred us to vapornAnd if that were allnThen right now we'd be storming the gatennBut our spies in the kitchen report that our maps are not savvynAnd the far eastern courtyard is riddled with anthracite minesnBut they swear us the gates will be open from sundown to suppernI suggest that we try to make practical use of the timennAnd this is a warnAnd we are not winningnAnd I'm patently surenThat I will not survivenBut we'll give them what fornLike we have since the very beginningnIn 1604nWhen the High Father fled from the HivennAnd your curvature's kind and your criminal's eyes are beguilingnAnd I didn't realize that anyone else would be herenBut I am no child, and I am not smilingnSo dress yourself quickly, for you've been promoted my dearnnFor at fourteen years oldnYou were sent to his highnessnA commodity soldnTo a bidder so highnBut these sheets are still coldnAnd he must suspect somethingnSo now do as your toldnOr millions are going to diennAnd we are the villainsnOf this little dramanAnd if you wish to stop usnWell you very well maynBut we'll be rememberednIn the patches of blight in your pasturesnAnd you can recedenBut the memories will staynnAnd this was our warnAnd I know it meant somethingnAnd although we abhornWhat you stand for and saynOur final rapportnWas really quite touchingnThough cut poignantly shortnAs the floors of the gallows gave way