Existence, the poetry of the flesh
Which we will trust from conception to dust
Just another body, a temple of shit
Filled with the trash that we dump in it
This house possessed with sins of the flesh
Instinctive desire to procreate, multiplying our mess
Another series of holes of which we're to fill
Mortal receptacles pumped full of seminal swill
A familiar stranger
To walk this earth is to always be in danger
A complete and utter objectification of a sentient being
An earthly trait of intellectual superiority
Born in a hate manger
Lined with extreme angst
And a broken chemistry
That familiar stranger
Mourning our minds
With an answer to the riddle you'll never find
Fertile are the loins of the earth
The soil tomb to which we return
Sharpened societal femurs
Our swords to fall on
Which we will trust from conception to dust
Just another body, a temple of shit
Filled with the trash that we dump in it
This house possessed with sins of the flesh
Instinctive desire to procreate, multiplying our mess
Another series of holes of which we're to fill
Mortal receptacles pumped full of seminal swill
A familiar stranger
To walk this earth is to always be in danger
A complete and utter objectification of a sentient being
An earthly trait of intellectual superiority
Born in a hate manger
Lined with extreme angst
And a broken chemistry
That familiar stranger
Mourning our minds
With an answer to the riddle you'll never find
Fertile are the loins of the earth
The soil tomb to which we return
Sharpened societal femurs
Our swords to fall on
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