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Floating minds connect in the yards once again and they say "he's not going to make it"

Open up the bottle look inside and see your life

A line of soldiers in your nose fighting a battle of ignorance

They say they're so sorry, that this won't happen again

Some kind of cleansing so vicious, baking in an oven

Restraints nailed into your wrists but they aren't forcing anything

Chants fronted from your precursor, stapled into the mouths of all these fools

Fabricated like the cross you wear on your chest