Z Sabbath

from by Thom Weeks

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Here's a thought
Kill the poor
Why not just kill everyone?
Build machines to tear the sun
Acid rain could flood our lungs
Die in the room where you were born
Where your mothers portrait hung
Where your father kept his gun and brought his women

So life, before you do your worst
Tell me what another year is worth
Show me why it all ain't just some dirty dirge
Then bring me home
Bring me straight home
Come morning we're running

Turn the key
Explode the sun
This world ain't fit for anyone
Save your pity for the young
Swaddled in darkness then they're gone
Die in the suit your father wore
When he buried mum and saw
All the evil enveloping the station concourse
He preached your new mentality
A human extinction society
Preparing his mouth in aid of speech
His lips ain't moving
Why aren't you moving?

And before his body even touched the dirt
He said that playing dead was worse
He said to gather all the hurt and send it home
Send it home
Send it all home
Come morning we're running

Here's a thought
Forget the hate
We could blot it out for daze
In the nauseating haze of purple smoke prescribed for pain
Abusing my monopoly
On your cancer, your disease
Your slip into the reveries of weed and codeine


from George, released August 17, 2015



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