Crows - Gatherers

We built this congress on a burial plot

We send our love to the tune of an atom bomb

We’re the calm and collected

We’re the diseased percentage

Marching your children to the beat of an empty oil drum

Stay sedated

What is mine is never yours

There’s no progress only cheap imitation

We’re not so different, we’re just cheap imitations

Where we draw our water is where we bury our dead

Leave us out to wander

Everyday, everywhere is hell

You’ll never know

You won’t hear it coming

You won’t hear it coming

You won’t hear us come in

No, no, no

Tied your body up and dragged you down

Hung you from the capital for crows to come and tear you apart