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The Dreams That Stuff Are Made Of

I can taste gasoline. I smell death on everything.
Anoint the head, name the baby "Greed," and teach it death.

We're all godless, bastard children, living in a corpse factory.
Our wants and needs are broken; they've become the same fucking thing.
It is not itself. It's theirs', it's yours', it's mine.

I can taste gasoline. I smell death on everything.
Advantage leads to murder and rape... the stuff of dreams.

We're all godless, bastard children, living in a corpse factory.
Our wants and needs are broken; they've become the same fucking thing.
It is not itself. It's theirs', it's yours', it's mine.

Get heavy. Be heavy. Wear your heart 'round your neck.
Get heavy. Be heavy. Light this fucker up.

(Bodies burning in shopping mall parking lots, in front of the Wal-Marts, those frameworks of civilization strewn about the desolate countryside, untarnished by buffalo, untarnished by Indians, enriched by sitcoms, enriched by billboards, enriched by tabloids, and lacking any resemblance of culture.)