Existence, the poetry of the flesh
Which we will trust from conception to dust
Just another body, a temple of shit
Filled with the trash that we dump in it

This house possessed with sins of the flesh
Instinctive desire to procreate, multiplying our mess
Another series of holes of which we're to fill
Mortal receptacles pumped full of seminal swill

A familiar stranger
To walk this earth is to always be in danger

A complete and utter objectification of a sentient being
An earthly trait of intellectual superiority

Born in a hate manger
Lined with extreme angst
And a broken chemistry

That familiar stranger
Mourning our minds
With an answer to the riddle you'll never find

Fertile are the loins of the earth
The soil tomb to which we return
Sharpened societal femurs
Our swords to fall on
What makes you think you're so sublime
Among the others that are standing in line?
Waiting for their time

We are only vessels that leave a stain that lasts forever
The toppled cup of skin that spills a poison with no half measure

We, we are only bodies
Survived by guilt and the neurosis of entitlement
Like insects
So are the days of our lives
With a vastly finite duration
With eons of habitual infestation

But I, I'm just a body
Alive but rotting
A storm of flies
That hides behind these eyes
I'm just a body
Eight billion like me
Burning our hive
Scorched alive
And you, you're just a body
Flesh-lined tragedy
Dead but alive
Remembering a time
Within our lives
In our history
Life in our prime
A fiction of the mind
Lying to ourselves, blind
We are just bodies
Insect parodies
Burning our hive
Remembering the crime
That is our lives
That's our history
Life in our prime
Reflection of a time
Where all is left behind