O N E B Y O N E

One by one
falling after.
Filled with laughter as they die.

Chin up son.
Not much further.
Sing it like it’s not a lie.

One by one.
Stupid people.
Stupid jobs and stupid lives.

Chin up son.
You’re the answer.
You’re the reason you’re alive.

We are wrought to fit a mold.
Guaranteed our weight in gold.
If we just shut up and go about existence quietly.

We are bullets in a gun.
Aimed directly at the sun.
And our trigger happy god is laughing uncontrollably.

Call the papers.
Call the churches.
Call the fuck who told you wrong.

Call the friend who mistook your patience for friendship
and graciously sing this song:

We are wrought to fit a mold.
Guaranteed our weight in gold.
If we just shut up and go about existence quietly.

We are bullets in a gun.
Aimed directly at the sun.
And our trigger happy god is laughing uncontrollably.

Fuck Golgotha.
Fuck ambrosia.
Someone else give me a sign.

We are angry.
We are damaged.
We are hungry.
We are savage.
And we’re waiting patiently in line.

All the sheep and wolves shook hands.
All the kings met our demands.
We had never known the ransom would be paid so readily.

All at once the world exhaled.
When governments and gods had failed.
And the earth began to give the soil into the sea.

We are wrought to fit a mold.
Guaranteed our weight in gold.
If we just shut up and go about existence quietly.

We are bullets in a gun.
Aimed directly at the sun.
And our trigger happy god is laughing uncontrollably.