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
His 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
He'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 the will
Now passions wane and spirits die
The weight on his chest
Aches in his flesh

Dreams of a day that never comes
Axe pressed to the wheel
Bones ground to dust
Shoulder to the plow
Ground down into dust for a taste of the
Good life, left his dreams, left their hopes behind

Work him dead
Let him rot