They will eat you in th crowd when your back is sof They will eat you in the engine Where your blood gets coughed And it ain't no sec... They will pick their teeth of your meat Ain't no magic to the math You sew they reap Your just a pixel to the colour In the number of blood types Fixture to the duller sides of slumber and lave life With just enough fixing's to keep the sons of clerks Impersonating princes This is the unmysterious and epic tar Of class stata at work Below the bracket of day Under the blood of the herd And that's my word Which is all I will not brake To stave of swarms or fates That would have a lesser fool'd meant bent on take But crooked ain't my shape I just ain't afraid To bare a little death on my plate... And that's my god degree And I wrote this motherfucker In a swarm of bee...