As the black wind withers in the sky, we are graced dimly in our dreams.

You have your very own number
They dress your cage in its nature
Once you roared now you just grunt lame
Pace around pathetic pound games
Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround
To carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks
Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick
For the outside
The small black flowers that grow in the sky
They drag sticks along your walls
Harvest your ovaries dead mothers crawl
Here comes warden, christ, temple, elders
Environment not yours you see through it all
Wanna get out won't miss you sensaround
Carry your own dead to swing your tyre tricks
Wanna get out in here you're bred dead quick
For the outside
The small black flowers that grow in the sky
Here chewing your tail is joy