it's a march to extinction with your god in step
it's his name in your mouth, it's his cross on your neck
it's a farm boy sprinting over desert dirt.
and he's panting the 'our father' in staccato spurts
now that's his automatic rifle and it tells no lies.
that's his truth in your stomach, it's no alibi
but the trouble lies on the other side.
another bag of bones.
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