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Progress is a myth

If not for he who suffered and

Gave himself away at the hands of fools and lesser men

False idols and kings

Who came to rule through circumstance

Work him like a dog with a ball and chain and thanklessness

The dice have been cast

No turning back, eyes on the ground, where he will die

Feet nailed to the floor, reason to be

Shoulder to the Plow

Facing down the wind

He sees the way they'll never change

Mark his slow decay

As bottles drain, and days go by

Forging his demise

Through poison vice to sap the mind

Iron was a will

Now passions wane and spirits die

The weight on his chest, aches in his flesh

Dreams of a day that never comes

Axe pressed to the wheel, bones ground to dust

Shoulder to the Plow

Ground down into dust for a taste of the good life

Left his dreams, left his hopes BEHIND!!!!

WORK! HIM! DEAD!!!!

LET! HIM! ROT!!!!