Flies

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I have condemned myself
To disconcert and, well…
See the falling fire?
To the falling fire

I, worshiper of myself,
I can barely fill
The space between my hands
The space between my hands

I’ve gotten tired of the Superlamb
Of the hysterical complaint of the ill-working
Of the mantras, Christ, of the mantras
Of the dead and the flies

I have condemned myself
To disconcert and, well…
See the falling fire?
To the falling fire

I have condemned myself
To disconcert and, well…
I’ve gotten tired of the Superlamb
Of the histerical complaint of the ill-working
See the falling fire?
Of the falling fire