You have your very own number
They dress your cage in it's nature
Once you roared now you just [bad word] 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 [bad word] warden, Christ, temple, elders
Environment not yours you see through it all

WannPictures in a box at home
Yellowing and green with mold
So I can barely see your face
Wonder how that color taste

You, were always so far away
I know the way
So don't [bad word] away like you used to do