|
You have your very own number |
|
They dress your cage in its nature |
|
Once you roared now you just grunt lame |
|
Pace around pathetic pound games |
|
Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround |
|
To carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks |
|
Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick |
|
For the outside |
|
The small black flowers that grow in the sky |
|
They drag sticks along your walls |
|
Harvest your ovaries dead mothers crawl |
|
Here comes warden, christ, temple, elders |
|
Environment not yours you see through it all |
|
Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround |
|
Carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks |
|
Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick |
|
For the outside |
|
The small black flowers that grow in the sky |
|
Here chewing your tail is joy |