What Blood Still Flows From These Veins

Twenty-six years of self-imposed exile
Now I stagger from the desert, both eyes blind, without hands
But I still see and I must act

Is there nothing left to do but dissolve my conscience?
What good is sympathy, what good is approval, when everyday
I put on this hood and cleave the guilty limb from limb?

Guilty of what, of being subordinates to a race of egotistical misanthropes?
We breed them without limbs and then rip them from their mother's womb
We pack their bodies together as tight as we can, stand them amongst urine and feces
Inject them with chemicals, livestock hacked apart piece by piece
Until the eyes we spray with poison just barely make out their impending doom
But screams can't come from throats covered in cancer
And there is no willpower left in a heart we infected with AIDS
Our axes are sharp, but we still cut them slow

They must feel every agonizing second of pain
They must know who's in charge
Ignorance and sloth rule the land but an army rises from the ashes of despair
You can see a forest of black banners on the horizon
Marching ever so closer
Marching