The Mars Volta Follow

There with them is error

we are sacrosanct

a taunting of ravens to you

my swarms have fit the holster

my faith burnt every house

like no other manger

i am emptier with doubt

bare them

sevens

three to a pall

marks the

venom

lush and terminal

when i became your larvae

you fed me from your plates

now my slouch is nervous

sinking by the face

wrinkled by this gravel

skinless trace of time

wear your cobwebs proudly

in your cheap and brittle sight

my glands emit this carnage

these pews bend back your knees

that uniform it wears you

when the ultimatum pleads

bare them

sevens

three to a pall

marks the

venom

lush and terminal

that cesspool it becomes you

just north of the eyebrows

squat the hole for a pucker

when the rations go blonde

the salted stitch is patient

waiting to engulf

there is plasma from this hoax

pretending to be us

embalming all the fluids i must i must

i prefer to burn it i must i must