>British mc'ing In the club and it's shutdown Shutdown In the club and it's shutdown Shutdown Shutdown >American mc'ing Subterranean maintain own tongue mongst ruins In subdued tones I speak of the flesh which entombs our inner core Who the blessed? Invade airwaves type Moors (wars) Sore from travels to unmarked thresholds, grapple truths untold lying in whispers it figures He who snickers doesn't see final melody Shattered splinters, melodic in their own unrest Remind me of Osiris, made liars of us all For 364 days I learned to crawl Appalled by sense of urgency to resurrect the dead Shed my last skin searching for angel with broken wing Will she sing that e minor hymn? For those of us who sin? For those of us who sin?
