We are dead, all talking heads,
Not suicide, but genocide, I can't hide.
They fucked us before the kill,
It's profitable they said on the side.
We got blindsided by our kin,
They sold us to the butcher brothers.
It's not what you're looking in life,
A scaffolding of rotting furs.
But our spirit lives on, and on,
And we smoke some pot.
It helps us quell the storm within,
Otherwise the head gets hot.
