Death Comes to the Sleeping

They build a fortress, to rule us all
an iron hand to cut us down.
Rage and rumble with crushing force
we are all free under the gun

It might be moral power
and they might be the chosen ones

Bullets speak louder and dictate the way
their will to rule leads us astray
Death comes to the sleeping while kept encaged
we're all just blood soiled slaves

It might be moral power
and they might be the chosen ones
And all our dreams are despondent.
Raise your hand, they'll cut it off