| Pawn of the undead, tell me
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| What drives the herd to the altar?
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| To sing, his songs
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| To kill in the name of the father?
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| As subjects, seraphic, so mesmerized
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| Who speaks, from the air
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| Through words in text-bound fiction?
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| Aeon, epochs…
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| What binds the flock to these illusions?
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| Unquestioned, apocryphal, arcanum… so obsolete
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| Penetrate the myth and artifice
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| Are we not still brothers, born from flesh alike?
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| Yet that burden’s on your back, handed down through time
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| Its coils grip firm, its forked tongue spits
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| The written word is law, there’s ʹno god but god,ʹ after all?
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| The names will change from one nation to the next
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| Yet one word joins them all — megalomaniacs
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| Minerva’s owl is dead, the zealot’s arrow struck
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| Spiral, spin, logic drifts, into the dusk
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| Breaking the bread, inquisitors arrive!
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| Anathema decreed
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| Duplicity, deceit
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| Off with their heads, they will say
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| Embodiment of faith
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| Riven in disgrace
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| Off with their heads, just the same
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| Merciful and kind
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| Holy and divine
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| Off with their heads, either way
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| Sanity and peace
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| Ever out of reach
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| Off with their heads, it’s too late
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| No maps point back from this place
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| When damnation calls, the confessor leads the way
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| Messengers of god
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| Cut their throats and praise in rapture
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| Mental malcontents
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| Spewing forth fairly tales
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| History is spent
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| Carving up minds of men
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| Sleepwalk through life
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| To caskets waiting, open wide
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| Dead axioms
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| Binds the past through broken hymns |