Bright flag, b-roll footage of the crops.
Papa gone da check the locks, he heard a noise.
The monsters stand outside the solemn chalk.
Consequences if they cross, will be deployed.
In the name of God, in the name of dog-eat-dog.
An entourage of pawns, pitches camp in the fog.
From the bravo castle to the blood-soaked abattoirs.
We storm the oily shores, tracking mud across the floor.
CHORUS:
From under the umbra.
From under the umbra.
We march on, everything.
VERSE 2:
Kerosene, there is me. There is you.
And I can't help myself.
A drunken, manifestation of destiny, laced in
That fresh franklin smell.
(That I could smell all day)
Where's the line? Yours or mine?
Is it time, to decide who will write the next stele of vultures?
Take the trees, build machines, fill the tank, eat the meat.
Press repeat. And don't let it haunt you.
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