VI. Song Of Prostration And Introversion (5. Bloody Shit)
You - with no sense
Just waste of means
Machine with potential
Running free

You - with no taste
Dull flesh with bones
Squeezing the mind
Being at wit's end

Down! Coming down! Bloody shit! What kind!

You - with no gracefulness
Soaked all the negative
Yet only dignity
Which for centuries wait

Down! Coming down! Bloody shit! What kind!

What kind of bloody shit coming down!?