Progress is a myth
If not for he who suffered and
Gave himself away at the hands of
Fools and lesser men
False idols and kings
Who came to rule through circumstance
Work him like a dog
With a ball and chain and thanklessness
The dice have been cast
No turning back, eyes on the ground
Where he will die
Feet nailed to the floor
Reason to be
Shoulder to the plow
Facing down
He'll see the way
They'll never change
Watch his slow decay
As bottles drain and days go by
Forgins his demise
Through poison vice to sap the mind
Iron was a will
Now passions wane and spirits die
The weight on his chest
Aches in his flesh
Dreams of a day that never comes
Ax pressed to the wheel
Bones ground to dust
Shoulder to the plow
Ground down into dust for a taste of their
Good life, left their screams, left their souls behind
Work him dead
Let him rot