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作曲 : Lucas Lanthier |
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They crept on hinged legs and suction cup toe-touch, |
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Leaving like dew drops their itch and infection. |
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Even Anopheles hastens for distance, |
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Losing an arm outstretched, keeping her burden |
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They were a sound that grew quiet and then found looking-glass ladies and children with scabies. |
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We are the monsters who smile after crib-death. |
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We are the grace for the clinically dead |
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We love the hiding guns, we hate the iron lung. |
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We go fast on black ice, we are a million flies. |
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We love the hiding guns, we hate the iron lung. |
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We go fast on black ice, we are a million flies |
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Their eyes were compound, imagine their seething... |
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Hands like a scavengers; instantly curious. |
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Even Hippocrates humored finality, |
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He heard the fly-sound and then learned antithesis. |
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Dead in the parlor with dust like a membrane, |
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Fly friends are dreaming of wings and antennae. |
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And when the family gathers to stare, |
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Lights are turned low for the pink-painted cheekbones... |
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|
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We love the hiding guns, we hate the iron lung. |
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We go fast on black ice, we are a million flies. |
| [02:13.100] |
We love the hiding guns, we hate the iron lung. |
| [02:17.725] |
We go fast on black ice, we are a million flies |
