Rote machine lifts my feet again
They trip on the line; they’re going to work
Mild descent to west desires
Mildew on the rind, you define me by worth
I say fuck the man, I say fuck the plan
I’m running in these flashlights, I’m saving my soul
I’m burning through these dye lines, I’ll never get old
Vogue repeats shift upon the lens
Projecting highs, a mind in reverse
Rapt ascent with a baptist choir
Lay hands to the sky, «God, tell me this works»
I say fuck the man, I say fuck the plan
I’m running in these flashlights, I’m saving my soul
I’m burning through these dye lines, I’ll never get old
Is it a revolution if all I’m making is holes?
You tell me to admit that I’m losing control
Why would I want to do that?