Beast of Carthage

Home of the oaks and the weeds and the trash that will cover us given any time. Stranded at the tournament soaking up blood, nourished by the black art of the palace floor. Charging up the hill into machine guns with a plumed helmet and a broken sword

And the ice, sewage ice, it's selling like hot cakes additive slime. Herded to a yellow tape cordoned off place. We were just conscripts forced to wield arms. Lining up the pit with pointed sticks, drive them men downhill into the pit

Beast of carthage makes his call a carrion smell in the foreman's yard, climbing up the dig site just for some asshole named Halliwell on the phone for you