Fetal Position

(Every man has his work to do. Me and Bill will tackle the engineer and fireman
Jim and Tom, what’s your job?
We’ll grab the conductor and then stand guard while you bring up the
Engineer and the fireman
That’s right. Sam, you and Jack got the most important jobs
You gotta get into that express car where the gold is
Don’t worry cap!)

Never thought the day would come I’d synthesize a few more pieces
Satan’s great big puzzle blankly printed across new diseases
Apollo, could you show me justice intonated?
I’ll take down Kafka’s pesticides we’ve too long celebrated
In the clouds I saw myself a specter on the straight and narrow
Fell back to the ground and broke my fingers as I played piano
My words are sharp but please ignore my countertenor
The text is only gospel if the stage brings you some pleasure

Does Valhalla welcome pacifists?

Oh, I don’t fit on my bed anymore
I never sleep but it feels like home
Oh, I don’t, I don’t, don’t fit on my bed anymore
In all my days, I’ll never build my rome

Who’s this guy who thinks he’s so much better than the megaphones?
Who’s this heathen who’s afraid of scaring clergy with tritones?
No one’s gonna bail you out, no muse of Christophori
The ant mill turns in retrograde, your voice does nothing for me
You won’t find yourself inside a paycheck for a counterculture
Stay alive and sing it to a gently screaming wreath of vultures
You got a price tag on your soul that they could rent from 9 to 5 or
You could sell to a suit and tie and lose all your desire

Do you win if you refuse to play?

Oh, I don’t fit on my bed anymore
I never sleep but it feels like home
Oh, I don’t, I don’t, don’t fit on my bed anymore
In all my days, I’ll never build my Rome

Working for a living
But you never wanted to survive
So build your church on this foundation, yeah
It ain’t much of a temple, but your body only ever gonna get you so far

Oh, I don’t fit on my bed anymore
I never sleep, but it feels like home, oh
Oh, I don’t fit on my (Who’s this guy who thinks he’s so much)
Bed anymore (Better than the megaphones?)
In all my days (Who’s this heathen who’s afraid of)
I’ll never build my Rome (Scaring clergy with tritones?)
Oh, I don’t, I don’t, don’t fit on my (No one’s gonna bail you out)
Bed anymore (No muse or Christophori)
I never sleep (The ant mill turns in retrograde)
But it feels like home (Your voice does nothing for me)
Oh, I don’t, I don’t, don’t fit on my (You won’t find yourself inside a)
Bed anymore (Paycheck for a counterculture)
I’ll sink beneath, ‘cause I’m not (Stay alive and sing it to a)
Made of stone (Gently screaming wreath of vultures)

Never thought the day would come I’d synthesize a few more pieces
Satan’s great big puzzle blankly printed across new diseases