I sense a disturbance on the front.
It is all around us, in the air.
The calm will pass over
for the storm is approaching:
it's on the bound;
can you feel it?
What if I'm right?
Yes, I know
we're all bound to our graves,
and I suppose I should say
that we are obliged to come
when we are bid.
Yet I can't.
There are things you still need to know.
Because you are you
and I am me
and we are all just children
of a rotting flesh disease.
So gather 'round
and sing a divination.
We believe we've found a way,
but you know throughout our lives
we're all gonna get screwed over
and in the end
we are all
fucked.

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