with the might of wasps in traps
sixty ways of it coming back
and you left yours up to chance
but with help we'll start fires within
and burn through the glass
and it's not my need to see
if the dead still dance
but it's in my design to believe that they're buried
to keep their old wearied and ivory bones held intact

i'll charge off fast
keeping greater distance from present and past
under dark clouds from smoke stacks
where strange birds circle the sky
in arranged paths

so the prince of shells and crabs
moved the air with battery packs
and brought floods that burst through dams
wearing two bits of pride
that father had forged him from wax
somehow grace pours out from monstrous acts