And your wasteland stays vandalized
Dream escapes to a closet class war
Electric arcades run on secret oils
Throws a brick through the city gates
Surface stop
The population disintegrates
Faded wrists and the risks worth taking
Observe as he works your wasteland
Metal moments fed on foreign textures
Success in a cut glass wardrobe
Flaming horses on a fading landscape
True to form, he is scared to touch them
Cogs turning like a flawed stage whisper
King mob as he vents his anger
King mob in a smashed wheel chair
Suffocating in a sadists' prayer
Breaks his mind with the things he knows
Controlled in a listless air stream
All the clothes loose like shredded hair
Backfires on his wordless offspring
Pressure drop
Jets are breathing in his latex eyes
Flicks a switch and he's the God of anger
Drives his mind like an engine room
Nerve gas for the walking wounded
King mob sings a lifeless tune
King mob
Pulling punches that you never met
Cold stream plus a wash of carbon
King mob at his withered console
Break the surface but there is no air
Cleans his blade with dreams he froze
