Themselves Follow

They will eat you in th crowd when your back is sof
They will eat you in the engine
Where your blood gets coughed
And it ain't no sec...
They will pick their teeth of your meat
Ain't no magic to the math
You sew they reap
Your just a pixel to the colour
In the number of blood types
Fixture to the duller sides of slumber and lave life
With just enough fixing's to keep the sons of clerks
Impersonating princes
This is the unmysterious and epic tar
Of class stata at work
Below the bracket of day
Under the blood of the herd
And that's my word
Which is all I will not brake
To stave of swarms or fates
That would have a lesser fool'd meant bent on take
But crooked ain't my shape
I just ain't afraid
To bare a little death on my plate...
And that's my god degree
And I wrote this motherfucker
In a swarm of bee...