Home of the oaks And the weeds. And the thrash that will cover us Given any time. Stranded at the tournament, soaking up blood. Nourished by the black art of the palace floor. Charging up the hill into machine guns With a plumed helmet and a broken sword. And the ice, sewage ice It's selling like hot cakes, additive slime. Herded to a yellow-taped Cordonned off place. We were just conscripts forced to wield arms. Lining up the pit with pointed sticks Drive the men downhill into the pit. And the ice, sewage ice. It's selling like hot cakes, additive slime Beast of Carthage makes his call. A carrion smell in the foreman's yard. Climbing up the digsite Just for some asshole named Halliwell on the phone for you.