Слова:
Malice In Leatherland

Please rot in your delusions I've feigned this tranquil bay While tempests tend to rise When my outlook's railed to rage My breath fogs on ze glass

He hears those towers teeter outside and feels teeth grinding in his jaw... Those wedged shards sting in me your flesh defines my real as long as -

And to think I once groveled 'neath your steep eaves And to think That you walk around like there's holes in your hands Got another pill to pop? You act

I AM BECOME DEATH DEATH How can I escape, the tyranny of the past? the sweat I've toiled in this, made muck sure mire fast, cheated of feature from dissembling