Our marching feet cut a track in the dirt, half way to hell; god damn, is this going to hurt?

There's hardly a ladder out, in this world of rat'smen,
cut into two, we're already walking in this grave.

We're all the knives in each others' backs, us,
The dying and the brave.

Eyes awake, wide and stern;
Livid and lidless lullabies.

If I lived life of callous, sparks, and boots,
this m...

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