hugohxc1984
15-jul-2010, 02:41
Good Riddance: "Waste"
Who will be their voice
Who will hear their cries
The ones who cannot speak
As we dehumanize
Incarcerated innocents
Their sentience ignored
Slaughtered by the millions
For the pseudo-carnivores
What a waste of our time
Of our land of our humanity
Blood-spattered carcass it
wets your appetite
Don't you fucking get it
Eating flesh it isn't right for you
For me our children the world
Destroy their machines
Burn their
staughterhouses to the
ground
Now it's time for us all to defend
The oppressed
Meat is murder
Still we consume the dead and rotting
Products of violence
We've got to make that change
For me our children the world
Propagandhi: "Purina Hall Of Fame"
Sleeping masters roused to burning homes from beds. Steeping toddlers plucked from their watery deaths: ribbons, plaques and soft-soap are the ephemeral rewards paid to the slaves whose selfless acts accord a higher value to their masters, while parting gifts (bolt pistols) console the rest. The remainder. Too bad the tributes paid to lives that relegate these thrones to lives spent valuing the runners-up, are known to be neither fleeting nor desirable. But nothing surprises me these days. I just sit and watch the box-cars roll by and wait. Patient. Unattended. A package under a terminal bench. A short fuse to scatter steady hands if I forget to remember that better lives have been lived in the margins, locked in the prisons and lost on the gallows than have ever been enshrined in palaces.
[whispered:]
It's not your fault, there's nothing we can do, it's just the way it is, there's nothing we can do.
Who will be their voice
Who will hear their cries
The ones who cannot speak
As we dehumanize
Incarcerated innocents
Their sentience ignored
Slaughtered by the millions
For the pseudo-carnivores
What a waste of our time
Of our land of our humanity
Blood-spattered carcass it
wets your appetite
Don't you fucking get it
Eating flesh it isn't right for you
For me our children the world
Destroy their machines
Burn their
staughterhouses to the
ground
Now it's time for us all to defend
The oppressed
Meat is murder
Still we consume the dead and rotting
Products of violence
We've got to make that change
For me our children the world
Propagandhi: "Purina Hall Of Fame"
Sleeping masters roused to burning homes from beds. Steeping toddlers plucked from their watery deaths: ribbons, plaques and soft-soap are the ephemeral rewards paid to the slaves whose selfless acts accord a higher value to their masters, while parting gifts (bolt pistols) console the rest. The remainder. Too bad the tributes paid to lives that relegate these thrones to lives spent valuing the runners-up, are known to be neither fleeting nor desirable. But nothing surprises me these days. I just sit and watch the box-cars roll by and wait. Patient. Unattended. A package under a terminal bench. A short fuse to scatter steady hands if I forget to remember that better lives have been lived in the margins, locked in the prisons and lost on the gallows than have ever been enshrined in palaces.
[whispered:]
It's not your fault, there's nothing we can do, it's just the way it is, there's nothing we can do.